All Washed Up

All Washed Up Sharon Maria Bidwell All rights reserved. Copyright ©2011 Sharon Maria Bidwell ISBN: 978-1-60521-625-...

Author: Bidwell Sharon Maria

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All Washed Up Sharon Maria Bidwell All rights reserved.

Copyright ©2011 Sharon Maria Bidwell

ISBN: 978-1-60521-625-6

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Changeling Press LLC

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www.ChangelingPress.com

Editor: Vicki S. Burklund

Cover Artist: Karen Fox

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All Washed Up Sharon Maria Bidwell It seems Peter’s life is all washed up, but maybe the answer is to “bare” all, including his heart. When Peter Blake takes a job working for Walker’s Wash-ups, little does he know that the easiest part of his day will be deciding which of his “uniforms” he hates the most. Needing the money to pay off a loan, Peter decides there are worse things in life than wearing a nude male grilling “Hot Sausage” apron, even if he can’t exactly remember what at the moment. His life shouldn’t be like this. Alas, he didn’t foresee redundancy. He didn’t foresee a time in his life when he’d have to take such a peculiar job, having to grin and “bare” it, where both pairs of “cheeks” burn equally with embarrassment, either! Even more surprising, he didn’t expect the sanest person in his growing list of crazy clients would be another man with a bruised heart, who has a lot to answer for, including his future.

Chapter One Peter Blake couldn’t decide which of the aprons he hated the most. Was it the one with the Best Thing since Sliced Bread logo, or the road sign announcing Man at Work? Or was it the sexy novelty aprons showing images of naked men dressed in various costumes such as a gladiator, a fireman, or as Tarzan in a loincloth? “You’ve got to be joking.” Nicole raised one eyebrow. “What part of I need the money has changed?” His jaw slid left and right, seemingly of its own accord. He could only hope the movement was slight enough that she didn’t notice. He doubted there was any mistaking the disgruntled look on his face, though. “Kitty cats? Kitty cats?” He held up the hideous pastel apron depicting felines in colours non-existent in nature. Nicole shrugged. “It’s for one of our clients. Marjory likes cats.” “And you’ve already lined me up with her?” Nicole sniffed. “She’s your first gig. Hey! Look, she’s ninety if she’s a day. Or at least looks it. And she doesn’t touch, only watches. She’s one of the most harmless.” “The most…” Peter blinked. “This is sounding like a bad idea already.” “When wasn’t it sounding like a bad idea? Peter, it is what it is. It’s stupid and degrading, and… well, some of the men actually seem to get a kick out of doing it, but that’s by no means all of them. And yes, before you ask, I’m sure some of them sleep with the clients. I know you don’t want that so I’ve asked Mike to try to give you the easy ones, those that only want to look for a giggle, or… at most, just maybe…” Nicole rumbled the last of her sentence off in a mumble; it sounded like packwhoonnakhide. “Pardon?” “I said, pat you on the backside!”

Sharon Maria Bidwell

All Washed Up

-6-

“There’s a lot of that?” Peter barely managed to suppress a squeak at the image of a wrinkled octogenarian ogling his personals, let alone patting anything. Nicole looked down, shifting from one foot to the other. “If you don’t like it, imagine being a woman in this… job.” At least she had the decency to hesitate over calling it a “job.” “Before you ask, no I don’t prostitute myself. Some of the girls, well, I’m sure they do. I know some of the men do, but they actually enjoy working for horny women, even if they say some of them need a paper bag over their heads.” It was Peter’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “Rob,” she said as way of explanation. Ah… That sounded like the type of remark Rob the “horn-dog” might make. He catalogued women by those fit to lay any time, and those only if he’d consumed a liver-enlarging amount of alcohol. “Not all of our clients are looking for that, and Michael doesn’t condone it.” Michael was Nicole’s cousin and ran Walker’s Wash-ups, the novelty cleaning service with that little extra, namely, a bare-arsed he or she wearing nothing other than a novelty apron of choice. “You can change your mind any time you like. No one’s forcing you to do this.” “Just the bank,” Peter muttered. There wasn’t much Nicole could say to that. He couldn’t tell whether her expression was sympathetic, or judgmental. After Nicole left, Peter made himself the strongest coffee he could stomach, and then sat down at his kitchen table. Bills lay spread out before him, a notepad and pen by his hand. He tapped figures into a calculator. He could survive on his benefit money -- barely, since his mother had left him the house -- but he couldn’t afford to pay back the loan he’d taken out to provide some private nursing care to ease her last weeks before she died. Hence, Nicole had persuaded her cousin to give him this little gig on the side, cash in hand. Maybe it was dishonest, but he was a hard worker and had paid his taxes all his life. He couldn’t afford to default on this loan. It would kill his credit rating and worse. It wasn’t worth it


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when he’d just signed on with a new agency, and he might find a job in a few weeks. He had to find a job. He couldn’t stand this. He’d been through so much over the last six years he’d have an alcohol problem if he could afford it. “Beggars can’t be choosers.” If he said it enough times, maybe he’d stop fighting the inevitable. He just couldn’t help looking at it from a conservative viewpoint. He’d always conformed -- his job and places he’d lived, his mode of dress, his neat orderly haircut. One couldn’t get less traditional than doing something like this. If he “worked” every weekend and in the evenings, he could pay off the loan in six months even if he didn’t find a full-time job. If he did, he’d give this up right away. For now… Peter finished his coffee, and then stood up. Folding the apron he’d need tonight, he then slipped them into a carrier bag. “Kitty cats it is,” he said with a sigh.

*** “Nice. Very nice.” Marjory smacked her lips. The first time she’d said it, Peter had believed she was referring to the cup of tea he’d made her, had believed the smacking of said lips was owing to lack of teeth and enjoyment of a well-brewed teabag. When he’d realised the old dear was giving him the eye, and her rather crude-sounding tone was an indication of a very different kind of appreciation, he’d turned back to the washing-up, his face burning. It felt as if his other cheeks were burning too. It had been bad enough talking himself out of his clothes and into this ridiculous get-up, but he could actually feel the old woman’s gaze on his backside. When he’d crouched to get something from under the sink, he’d done it automatically. A draft had reminded him all his bits were dangling, and he’d stood up in such a hurry he actually managed to suffer whiplash of the testicles. He could only hope the blush didn’t extend throughout his body. He’d quickly learned not to flinch when one of her dozen cats weaved around his legs. Such movement made his buttocks jiggle. One of them had hissed and taken a swipe at him, which he’d only just managed to avoid. At least the front of the apron


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protected his most vulnerable bits from wayward claws. Marjory had “corrected” the cat by cooing to it about the “nasty man.” By the time he left, he didn’t know which of them to feel sorrier for. Did the old dear really want to spend her pension money on this service? He drove to the next address on the list, a woman named Julie Edwards. The house had to be worth three-quarters of a million. His rather battered Ford Fiesta looked out of place parked in her driveway. He checked the list. She’d chosen “Macho Man in Union Jack Boxers” for the apron. The woman who opened the door had long red fingernails, which matched her red lipstick, and the highest pair of red high-heels he’d ever seen. The leopard-print dress was only slightly less tacky than the huge (he believed real) diamond on her wedding finger. Her well-cut long blonde hair had a dye job that looked too harsh. She held a crystal glass full of amber liquid from which she took a slug. He recalled Nicole’s info on her: younger woman married to much older rich man, now deceased. Hmm. “You’re two minutes late.” Did The Customer is Always Right apply in this case? He followed her into the living room trying not to visibly baulk at the lack of taste. Royal Family memorabilia decorated walls painted in hideous marshmallow pink. “Change in the downstairs loo, and put your clothes in the cupboard under the stairs. And hurry up. My guests will be here any minute.” Guests? “Er… I wasn’t told there’d be anyone else present.” She gave him a startled WTF look. “Just a couple of girlfriends. What are you, shy or something? That’s the whole point of this. So we can have a giggle on a girls’ night. You’re the entertainment, stupid.” Julie turned to him and sniffed, casting her gaze down and then up as if she were trying to inspect him through his clothes. “I suppose you’ll have to do. I’d expected someone a bit younger.” Peter tried to project a WTF look of his own. He wasn’t that old. I take it you don’t like them older unless they’re rich. Peter bit back on the retort.


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“Anyway, it’s too late to change you now,” she continued, as if he were a bad dress decision. The doorbell rang. “Oh look, there’s my first guest now.” She shoved her empty glass at him. “Change. Change! Then get into the kitchen. I’ll call for you as soon as my other friend gets here. Your job is to serve us canapés and drinks.” “What should I do when I’m not serving?” “Stand in the corner with a fucking lampshade on your head for all I care, as long as you flash enough skin.” He hadn’t thought it was possible for his dick to wilt along with his ego, but at this rate he’d put cocktail wieners out of business.

*** “We’ve had a complaint about you,” Nicole said. “What?” He’d only been doing this stupid freaking job for a week. What was there that anyone could possibly complain about? He wasn’t a bodybuilder, but he was in good shape. No six-pack but no flab -- a neat stomach where you could see an outline of underlying muscle. Anyway, the aprons covered his stomach so that shouldn’t matter. His “uniform” did show some of his chest. There was nothing wrong with his chest, was there? The clients mostly looked him up and down from the back. He didn’t have a spotty backside -- he’d made sure of that, checking it out in the mirror like some sad sap loser when he took the gig. “It’s your attitude.” Attitude? “I’ve been nothing but polite.” “I’m sure you have.” Nicole sounded tired, as if, on the outside, she might be twenty-eight, but she was eighty-eight on the inside. They’d met for a bite to eat in a local greasy spoon. She picked at the sandwich on her plate; it was beginning to curl up at the corners, and it hadn’t been sitting there long enough for that. Pete felt just like the sandwich: dry and curled. “For God’s sake, Pete, you’ve got to learn to fricking smile once in a while.”


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It hadn’t crossed his mind that he hadn’t been smiling, or that he even needed to. He sank back in his seat. He considered ordering another coffee, and then decided that he was risking his health if he had another cup of the mud they called coffee in this place. He harboured strong suspicions that they “recycled” the coffee from what people left in their cups, just topping it up with a little more water now and then. “I know it’s difficult, but you have to appear to be enjoying yourself.” “Cleaning up other people’s mess?” “No, Peter.” Nicole spoke as if she were talking to a small child. “To be prancing about jiggling your backside around for other people’s frigging entertainment. If I can do it, I know you can.” He didn’t know about that. “Fine. So I’ll plaster a fake smile on to my face.” “Doesn’t matter if it’s fake, just push up the corners of that mouth. It’ll bring out your dimples, and that’s all they want to see.” Dimples? What dimples? Peter took the list of clients for the weekend, surprised to see he only had one tonight, but the reason for that was obvious. “A party?” “It’s a hen party. They don’t want a stripper so this was the next best thing. They just want you to serve snacks and drinks.” Nicole pursed her lips. “You’re bound to get a few copping a feel at this one. A bunch of drunken women… Sorry, but you’re going to have to put up with some remarks, touches and nips.” “Nips?” Nicole’s gaze flicked down in the general direction of his derriere. “If you don’t think you’re going to get your arse pinched on this job, then think again. At a hen party, it’s a certainty.”

*** At least he had a lie in on Saturday morning. Peter lay on his back, void of thought, staring at the ceiling. He just didn’t want to get up. He tried not to think about the reasons why. He had three clients today. Clients. Yeah, right. That was a good name for them.


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He considered rolling over and going back to sleep, but it was getting on for eleven. It had been a late night, but he’d made it home by midnight. His stomach demanded he eat something even if the thought of the three appointments killed his appetite. “I’m never going to survive this,” Peter said breaking the silence of his bedroom, immediately hating himself for sounding so weak. For pity’s sake, people faced real hardship every day. So he had to get semi-naked in front of a few crabby women for a few weeks. Even if he didn’t find a job, he’d pay off the loan soon enough, and then he’d give this up. In the meantime… “Suck it up.” The statement should have fortified his resolve; instead, he felt even more demoralised, considered crying. With a sigh, Peter rolled out of bed. He caught himself sucking it up in the form of pulling in his gut as he stood in front of the mirror. Shaking his head, he said, “Get a grip.” He was not getting fat. Fine, so never had he imagined himself at the ripe age of thirty-three -- or at any point in his life for that matter -- wearing nothing but an apron in front of any woman who wasn’t a girlfriend or wife, but his life wasn’t over even if it had hit an all-time low. His brown hair and eyes appeared to lose some of their lustre even as he stared at his reflection. Peter’s brain told him he wanted eggs and bacon. He managed three slices of almost dry toast and hoped his stomach wouldn’t heave it up in the next few hours. He put away the Hot Stuff apron that he’d worn the previous night -- the one that featured a print of a big red chilli in the general area of his dick. Then he packed the three aprons he’d need today. Maybe things would get better. They could hardly get much worse.

Chapter Two The butcher’s apron with bloody handprints made more sense once he met his first client of the day. Kim had to be in her forties and would have been an attractive and even young-looking woman for her age if she weren’t dressed like a teen Goth done badly. “You just want me to wash up?” “Yeah, but I want you to wash these.” Peter blinked at the array of knives. Well, as long as they weren’t in her hands, he supposed it was all right. “Just wash them?” He didn’t think they were even dirty. “Yeah, but real slow like.” “Er… okay.” He tried to do his “job” while struggling to ignore the movie posters pinned to the walls in Kim’s studio flat, but she saw him looking. “You seen Psycho?” It took him a moment to realise she was talking about the film. “Hasn’t everybody?” “Halloween?” “Erm…” “Bloody Valentine?” “No.” “Saw?” “No.” “Texas Chainsaw?” Fuck this for a game of soldiers. No way was he coming back here.

*** “Pass me one of those éclairs, please. You sure you don’t want one?”


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“No, thank you, Michelle.”

“All the more for me.”

Peter hoped it looked like a smile on his face. In reality, he was gritting his teeth.

The sight and smell of all the cakes was making him feel unwell. At least Michelle wasn’t eating them, but he wasn’t sure that was a good thing. The poor woman looked ill. When asked to wear an apron patterned in ice cream and cakes, and to arrive with a large enough order of cakes fit to feed a small starving country, he’d thought this was another tea party or that Michelle would be fat. Turned out Michelle just liked to pull the cakes apart with her fingernails. “Am I pretty?”

“Yes.” It was true; her face was quite pretty.

“Am I fat?”

“No.” Also, true. He couldn’t help wondering if she hadn’t been resurrected just

that afternoon. Where did they find these people? Did they all need psychiatrists? Wasn’t he going to meet anyone at least somewhat “normal?”

*** The door opened as Peter was about to knock. The woman coming out started and smiled. “Oh! Walker’s Wash-ups?” Peter nodded. Was this Christine? She looked middle-aged and the type of woman who made a good auntie. She appeared to be leaving so he couldn’t be certain. “Go in, go in,” she said. “Chris is through the back. You can get changed in the guest bedroom. It’s upstairs, last door on the right.” She hustled back into the house, and Peter followed. Popping her head through a door at the end, she shouted out,” The man from Wash-ups is here. Be nice!” She bustled back, giving the impression of a bouncing ball with too much compressed energy. “You’re my idea.” She patted him on the arm. “Nothing ever gets done around here. I’m hoping you’ll be able to make it for a few hours every weekend.” Every weekend? As long as this Christine wasn’t a loon, it could be an easy job. The house had a relaxed, lived-in and loved sort of feel. At first glance, the furniture


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was a mixture of old and new. There seemed to be plenty of books, not too much obvious technology. He liked it, and homes were often a reflection of their owners. “Chris is a sweetie,” the woman confided. “I just thought you might be able to raise… a smile.” Odd little hesitation there, at the end, but maybe this woman was trying to make a friend or relative laugh. For the first time since he’d taken the job, Peter didn’t feel quite so used. “I’ll do my best,” he said, and then caught himself actually smiling.

*** “Is that for me?” The man standing in front of the easel stared pointedly down at a certain area near Peter’s groin. Peter stood there wearing the ”Hot Sausage” Nude Male Grilling apron, gaping like an idiot. He knew he was gaping, knew he wasn’t hiding his shock at all. He just couldn’t seem to do anything about it. Chris? He’d thought that meant Christine. The man standing in front of him had a disarming grin, and twinkling brown eyes. Dancing eyes. Laughing gaze. Middleaged maybe, although it was hard to age him exactly. Despite the touch of grey in his dark hair, the man appeared strong in the arms and shoulders. The man put down the paintbrush, and then wiped his fingers on an old cloth. Inspecting his digits, he judged them good enough and stuck out a hand. “Christopher Hunter. Sorry about this, but you’re my sister’s idea, and I generally do what I can to make her happy.” Christopher waved a hand, gesturing at a chair. “Sit, sit. No formalities here.” Peter stood at the side of the table, dithering. He’d done a few chores and helped Christopher make some sandwiches. He hadn’t expected the man to set out two plates and to pour two large mugs of tea. The offer of food didn’t go unnoticed by his stomach. Even if he felt on edge, he’d had nothing but three slices of semi-burnt bread all day. Still, he didn’t feel comfortable about sitting. Christopher apparently worked out his predicament.


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“I’m not worried about those sweet cheeks touching the seat. Sit. Tuck in. I’m not eating all this alone, and besides,” those dark eyes flicked down and then up, “I doubt you’ve had time to eat today.” Trying to ignore the mention of his sweet cheeks, Peter said, “I could have had my fill of cream cakes earlier.” “Do tell.” Much to his surprise, Peter did. “Poor girl. Still, not your place to save her, but maybe not your place to encourage her either?” The lilt of Christopher’s voice made it a question. “Well, I didn’t know until I got there, but I don’t want to go back.” Just as he didn’t want to go back to the knife-loving Goth. He thought of telling Christopher about that encounter as well, but then he discovered he didn’t have the energy. He also felt a little uncomfortable, as if he were breaking client confidentiality or something. If he talked about others, maybe this Christopher would think he’d talk about him in turn. Not that he was sure he wanted to return here either, but at this rate, Michael would kick him out of the job if he kept refusing work. This Christopher at least seemed sane. “What are you doing this for, Peter?” Christopher looked at him over the rim of his mug. “I mean, forgive me for saying so but you look like a presentable young man.” “Not what you expected?” “I didn’t know what to expect, but you surely weren’t it. What do you do when you’re not…” Chris waved a hand in the air. “I take it you do do something else?” “When I’m given the opportunity to, yes, I’m in I.T.” He wanted to take it back the moment he said it. Christopher’s raised eyebrow sent heat into his face. “Fallen on hard times?” “Something like that.” “You’re better than this.” Peter squirmed, but all that did was remind him his bare backside sat on one of this man’s dining room chairs. What if he left a pubic hair behind? Ugh. “You can’t know that. You don’t know me.”


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“Let’s say first impressions are everything. You’re neat. Your hairstyle says office worker, and even your nails are manicured.” Christopher looked at his paint-stained nails and pulled a face. “I’m not very good at keeping up the well-dressed gay stereotype. Give me jeans any day, even in the workplace if I could get away with it. Never cared how people look. More concerned with what they have up here.” Christopher tapped the side of his temple. “So you’re temporarily between career opportunities.” The man grinned as if to say he was only teasing and meant nothing by it. “No girlfriend?” “No.” Why was he answering this guy’s questions? It wasn’t part of the job description. “Boyfriend?” Peter blushed deeper. He knew he did. He felt ablaze. “I’m not going to ravish you,” Chris said, making the statement sound perfectly reasonable. “I-I think I’ve answered enough questions.” “Well, you are a stranger I’ve let into my house. A decidedly strange stranger, some might say, considering you’re the one wearing nothing but an apron.” “No stranger than wanting someone wearing nothing but an apron, surely?” “Ah…” Christopher took a bite of sandwich, chewed it up, and wiped his hands on a napkin. Peter caught himself staring at the smudges of paint embedded in the man’s cuticles. “Fair enough.” He looked abashed. “This really wasn’t my idea. If it were up to me, I’d tell you to put your clothes on, but there’s no knowing if, or when, my sister will pop back, and if she discovers I’m less than enamoured with her present, she’ll be upset. Not that you aren’t fetching to look at.” “I-I’m not… I mean, I’m not…” “Gay? Don’t worry. Your virtue’s safe. I’m just wondering why a handsome thirty-something like you has no girlfriend.”


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“She left,” Peter said, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. He’d managed to devour one sandwich, but now it rested heavily in his stomach. “Truth is, I used to live with my mother, and most women don’t like that. Crystal --” “Crystal?” A smile played with Christopher’s lips. The expression softened his features. Nice smile. Nice lips. Nice man. What? What the fuck was that? I’ve not… for years. And it was just the one time. Nothing. I was young. Just… experimenting. Peter dismissed his wayward thoughts as being ridiculous. Was he so starved for affection he’d look for it with the first person who made him feel comfortable regardless of sexuality? Maybe. Would he regret it? He couldn’t answer that. He definitely liked women and one slightly drunken encounter didn’t make you bi. “Crystal couldn’t handle my mother getting sick. She certainly couldn’t handle my moving back home to look after her. Then other women… Well, the moment you say you live with your mother…” He shrugged. “Even when you explain why, they don’t want a dying woman on their hands, and anyway, I never had much time. Towards the end it was better that it was just the two of us.” The two of us and an expensive nursing service for when I couldn’t be there. “Don’t you think someone else would have buoyed you up, helped keep you sane?” “I dunno.” Peter rubbed at the spot between his eyes. “I guess that would depend on the person.” He didn’t say Crystal wasn’t that sort of person; judging by the look on Christopher’s face he probably didn’t have to. “I just didn’t have any energy to spare, though. It was messy, and I’m glad I didn’t have to put a partner through that. Things were bad enough.” Why was he telling this man all this? Something about Christopher just made him want to talk. The man was easy to be with and easy on the eye. He could admit that much. Christopher was attractive with enough definition in his face to say he knew more than he wanted to about life. He had experience. Peter suspected his share of good


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as well as bad. Not all of those small creases around his eyes were laughter lines, yet he seemed the sort to enjoy life despite some hard knocks. “Look, I’ve said more than I ought. You’re a strange -- um -- I mean, I don’t know you. If you want me to answer questions, then what about you? Why does your sister think you need me around to raise a smile?” “Is that what she said?” Peter nodded. “Well, she thinks I spend too much time by myself. She knows you’re not a prostitute service. She just thought I could do with a bit of help around the house, and in that she’s probably right.” “There are plenty of normal housekeeping services.” “True, but she wanted to do something that might give me a laugh. She thought it might raise more than a smile for me. She hoped it might raise my interest, although she hasn’t said that to you directly and wouldn’t say it to me.” “Why?” “It’s been a while, that’s all. My partner… died a couple of years ago.” The pause was obvious, as if Christopher tripped at the word. “Gets easier to say it after a time,” he elaborated, as if he had reason to apologise for the hesitation. “He was older than I by quite a bit, and he smoked, drank, and ate a little too much. Something gave out.” He made a gesture around his chest that Peter took to mean internal organs. “Charlotte, that’s my sister, she always thought I was too good for him, but when you love someone…” Chris shrugged. “I’ve had a couple of rebounds and a couple of one-night stands since then. Recently, I’ve just been too busy with work. I paint to relax. When I’m not painting, I prefer to work in the garden, which is why even the washing up gets neglected, and that’s when I remember to eat.” “You’re very good,” Chris looked over at the easel standing on the far side of the room by the patio doors. “No. I’m adequate.” “I can’t draw stick figures, so it looks plenty good to me.”


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“Looks good to me, too.” Peter turned his gaze back to Christopher’s face. The other man was staring at him. Peter could feel his face heating up again. “You said you do the garden? Is that as artistic as your painting?” Christopher laughed. “Probably more so. Landscaped it myself. I grow vegetables as well as flowers. I love to cook, but there’s not much call to do so when you’re alone. Maybe I can cook for you one day.” “There’s no need for that.” It was beginning to sound too cosy, as if they were discussing a date. “No. I’d like to. Look, my sister’s paid for you for a couple of months, right? Your job is technically to cheer me up and entertain me, correct?” Peter nodded, reservedly. “Well, it would please me to have someone to cook for sometime.” That sounded reasonable. “Fine. Thanks.” “Speaking of which, I need to do a bit of pottering about in the garden today.” “Do you want help?” Christopher’s gaze flicked down and then up. “Wearing that?” “Er, maybe not. So… um… What do you want me to do? I mean, do you want anything polished? Er, cleaned? I mean, I’m here. There must be something you want to do with me.” Fuck fuck fuck. There was no quitting while he was ahead; he’d already made a fool of himself. “What I’d like to do with you is take you upstairs and screw your brains out until I wiped that rabbit caught in the headlights look off your face. I’d like to change that look of misery to a wide grin stretching your lips, beads of mingling sweat dewing your skin. If I thought that would make you happy, I’d be inclined to try my luck, too.” Peter was gaping again. He wasn’t sure his eyes could open any wider. “Tell me, Peter. Just how many years did you look after your sick mother?”


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“Six.” As much as the reversal in topic took him unawares, the reply slipped out before he could stop it. Six long puke and shit filled years. He wasn’t sure for which of them it had been more humiliating. “I’d do it again,” he said, feeling that somehow he had to refute something this man hadn’t even said. “Of course you would. Just as I would in the same position for a relative, or someone I loved. Told you, when you love someone, truly love them, there are few choices. Even if they get sick or are hell bent on eating themselves into an early grave, you do what you have to do.” Christopher shrugged. “Still, I’m sorry for the predicament we both find ourselves in, thrown together rather unwillingly like this. I propose we make the best of it, but be honest, what do you think about all this, despite all my nosiness?” “All this?” “About coming here again? I’m sorry about the… dress code, but I could do with someone tidying up on the weekends so I can have the time to paint and work in the garden. I work long enough hours as it is.” “What do you do? I mean, no, don’t answer that. None of my beeswax.” “It’s fine. I work for a local electronics company. Used to work longer hours than I do now. Losing Donald, I realised life is too short. I’d given up painting. Hadn’t picked up a paintbrush since I was a young man. Decided it was something I wanted to do again. The garden I’ve always loved, but that wasn’t Donald’s thing, either.” “I’m glad.” “Glad?” “I mean, it’s nice, when people have something in their life they love to do. Someone to love, that’s the best thing, but it’s nice to have something that motivates you.” “And you don’t?” “No.” “We’ll have to see about that.”


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He didn’t have a clue what Chris meant by that and would not enquire. So what if the man was gay? It was odd to prance about in this man’s home wearing nothing but an apron, but this was the easiest gig he’d had all week. “You’ll be back next weekend? Both days?” Peter caught himself nodding. Yeah, he’d be back.

*** Putting his foot to the shovel, Chris turned over the moist soil. He was hoping to grow a few ears of corn this year, not because it was entirely practical in a British climate, but just because he wanted to. He was stubborn like that. Even now, with the light fading and knowing it was already a little too dark to be working, he’d continued toiling with the shovel, until he had no choice but to stop. The manual labour was a forgiving contrast to sitting behind an office desk. Not that he looked the part when he did, and not that he particularly enjoyed it. He could hardly berate Peter for doing something he so clearly hated, when he did the same every day. It was that or let his father’s company run into the ground. He thought back to the little shop his father had started the business with, and the vast difference between that and the endeavour it was now, and it made him smile. It was probably the only part of the job that did please him. That and the fact that his nephew would be joining the firm as soon as he finished his exams this year, followed a year after by his niece. Having no kids of his own, he doted on them, and it was good they both wanted to learn the ropes and keep the firm in the family. As time went on he planned to step to the side and let them take over. His sister hated technology, so the intellectual faculty needed seemed to have skipped a generation, but Charlotte’s kids were frighteningly bright. Chris had always loved physical work. Maybe not domestic work, but the dexterity required to paint and the physical movement needed to complete a building or gardening project, those were things he loved. He accepted maybe he saw these things through rose-coloured glasses. Maybe he wouldn’t love them half so well if he had to do them, instead of choosing to.


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Speaking of having to do something… That was the other reason he was out here working late at night. Peter had left him with a type of nervous energy he hadn’t felt in a long time and sorely needed to work off. Peter. Why did the man have to be straight? Why did his sister have to come up with this silly idea just to get him to have some company in the house? She thought a male presence would remind him of what it was like to live with someone and so she’d come up with this idiotic gesture. Peter would be spending several weekends here, at least six hours on Saturday and four on Sunday. That wasn’t helping Christopher get over missing Donald. He’d always miss his beloved, even if he found love again. He wasn’t averse to finding love. It just hadn’t happened yet, and it had only been a couple of years. What did his sister expect? Now she’d put someone in his path who Christopher had wanted the moment he’d shaken the guy’s hand and knew he couldn’t have. Now he was missing Donald and feeling heartsick for an entirely different reason. Well done, sister. Thanks a bunch. Chris jabbed the shovel into the ground, narrowly missing his foot, and had to accept it really had grown too dark to see. He’d never been very good at finding his way in the dark. That took a type of patience he wasn’t very good at.

Chapter Three “Peter, I am so sorry.” Nicole stood dripping second-hand rain on to his hall carpet. Her umbrella didn’t seem to have saved her from the worst of the downpour. “I hear you had a rough day and rejected a couple of clients I chose for you.” “You chose? Oh, um, do you want to come in for a bit? Want a drink?” Peter had been so surprised by Nicole’s unexpected visit he’d forgotten his manners. “No, I can’t stop. I just wanted to apologise. Today was my fault. They sounded like such easy assignments. I had no idea this Chris was a man.” Peter opened his mouth, hesitated. What to say? Nicole would find out the truth either way, and he didn’t want to lose the assignment. “Chris wasn’t the problem.” “His sister made the call you see and… What? Oh!” Her surprise apparent, Nicole’s face twisted as she worked her way through Peter’s statement. “So, it was the girls?” How to explain his decision? “Look, I know it sounds strange, but Christopher is… quite normal. Probably the most normal person I’ve met in over a week. And this whole thing was his sister’s idea. He’s really not into it, but he’s happy to have me tidy up around the house. That’s all he wants. The girls both need psychiatric treatment. They were downright scary.” “So you’re going back to Christopher’s but not to either of the girls?” Nicole apparently still struggled with the concept. “If it’s deal with a knife fixation, watch the vivisection of cream cakes, or spend the day with a man whose biggest love is painting and is actually capable of intelligent conversation, which would you choose?” “I see your point. I… Erm… I guess I’ll sort you out some new aprons then, something more appealing to a gay man.”


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Peter wanted to tell her there was no need, but then Christopher had said he couldn’t do anything about the “uniform,” and his wearing them would apparently keep the man’s sister happy. Happy sister meant for a happy client, and at least one easy gig until he could give this up for something sensible.

*** Christopher hoped Peter could see the apology in his gaze. “My sister is staying for tea,” he said, making faces behind her back. He had hoped he could tell Peter the apron wouldn’t be necessary. It was plain the other man found the whole situation awkward and embarrassing. Chris had compassion for Peter’s predicament, but Charlotte had shown up determined to make sure she was getting her money’s worth… or rather her brother was. “You don’t mind waiting on both of us, do you, dear?” Charlotte asked, sounding like an eccentric grandmother. If one thing irritated Christopher about his sister, it was her habit of calling everyone dear. “It’s salad and cold cuts. Brought them round myself. All you have to do is lay the table and set them out.” “And join us,” Chris said. “I asked Peter to eat with me last week,” he told his sister when she raised an eyebrow. “He does such a good job cleaning up, and is a very good conversationalist.” “I’ll… get changed then, shall I?” Peter seemed a little undecided about that, but Charlotte piped up. “That would be lovely, dear.” “Sorry,” Chris mouthed from behind her back. At least Peter gave him a nod. Maybe he’d still be speaking to him by the end of the day. “I didn’t hire him for his conversation,” Charlotte said softly as Peter left the room. “You’re paying for him for all of six weeks. What do you care what I do with him? And don’t even suggest I seduce him.” “No. I wasn’t.” His sister turned pink. “I just hope you’re not ignoring the reason I decided to do this.”


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“How could I?” He kissed her on the forehead. “I know I’ve got to move on. I’m getting there.” “I know you are. I just thought the sight of a pair of tight buns might hurry you along.” “Thank you, dear sister, but really…” He stopped speaking, staring across the room, his mouth open. “Um… I’m sorry about this.” Peter had returned. He stood in the doorway wearing an apron with a picture of a man wearing some sort of fantasy ball gown. This rather regal dress had a banner across it declaring I am Your Queen and flashing the “crown jewels” through a split in the skirt. “Oh my,” Charlotte said. “It’s not my idea,” Peter said. “It’s what the um… office gave me.” Chris was having trouble breathing. He rather thought if he took a deep breath, he might start to cackle. “Oh… my,” his sister said again, and the look she flashed him was so apologetic, Christopher had to excuse himself or give way to his hysteria. It took him five minutes alone in the bathroom, biting on a towel to stifle his laughter before he managed to pull himself together.

*** “I think you’ve earned your pay just for the look on my sister’s face,” Christopher said. Once Charlotte had left, he’d given way to a fit of the giggles. “At least I impressed her with my serving of cold cuts,” Peter said in all seriousness, although the expression on his face gave away his amusement. “Oh…” Chris took gulps of air between intermittent laughter. “Oh dear. Nice to see you have a sense of humour.” “You kind of need one to do this job.” “And balls to match.” Chris waited for those light brown eyes to flick up to take in the sight of his face, and then he winked. It started hesitantly enough, but finally,


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Peter smiled. It was such a nice smile. Sort of sheepish, and demure, but that was precisely what made it enticing. With that conservative hairstyle, Christopher could easily picture Peter in a business suit carrying a briefcase. Maybe he was getting a kick out of seeing this man in an apron. It was like picturing the audience in their underwear, only seeing it for real. Every meeting he went to now, he’d picture the executives butt naked under novelty aprons. “I should do the washing up.” Peter began collecting plates. “I’ll help.” “No really, it’s not --” “You wash. I’ll dry.” Chris took his share of the crockery. Peter looked out of the window as he worked. “Are you working in the garden today?” “Hadn’t planned to. Maybe tomorrow.” “If you don’t mind me exchanging the apron for jeans, I’d like to help. My mother had most of the garden concreted when she couldn’t take care of it any longer. I’ve thought of restoring it, but I don’t know if I’m going to settle there. It’s just slabs and a bit of lawn at present.” Peter nodded to the structure at the end of the garden. “I love the look of your greenhouse.” The design was Victorian. Most people thought it too elaborate. Donald had considered it an indulgence. Peter was the first person to say he loved it and look at it longingly. “We can do that,” Chris said. He could easily picture himself working with Peter in the garden. That was what he was afraid of. “Donald wasn’t much for the garden except for sitting out in it, watching me. He would have opted for concrete if I’d let him.” “I bet Donald didn’t like your favourite chair, either.” Chris had a huge armchair in the living room that he loved to lounge in to read. It was about half the size again of a normal chair. Two people could just about squeeze


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into it, side by side. “He didn’t at first. Later as he put on weight, I caught him eyeing it up now and then. I think he avoided sitting in it just to be stubborn.” Enough about Donald. Time to change the subject. “Tell me, is this the worst apron you’ve had to wear?” “You mean you don’t like it? I can wear the sheep shagger apron if you’d prefer. There’s the half-dressed businessman, and I think Nicole is getting in some just for you. She wants me to find out whether you like Michelangelo’s David, Coronation Street, the Wizard of Oz, or the idea of a transvestite in suspenders.” “You can get all these?” “Yes. I drew the line at the naked man with a magnifying glass over a very small penis and the Come Dine with Me apron with a knife and fork either side of where my dick would roughly be. That one has a drop down flap depicting a plate.” “And under the plate?” “A… clear panel.” Peter’s voice went a little quiet. He put a clean, wet plate in the draining rack. Christopher watched the play of muscle tone in the man’s shoulders, almost missing the worktop when he put a plate down. He caught it just in time. “Do they do a Superman one?” “Well, there’s one with the S logo. It’s plain, so not much call for it.” “Tell her I have a thing for Superman and want that one.” “Superman?” Peter’s voice contained some hilarity, but something else existed in there -- a hint of self-doubt, if Christopher weren’t mistaken. Granted, he didn’t know much about the man, but he’d asked him a few questions about working in I.T. and Peter knew what he was talking about. The very fact he’d personally taken care of his mother, even when things got difficult, showed much compassion, devotion, loyalty, and love. He might not be Superman, but he was a decent sort. Peter wasn’t lying when he said he loved Christopher’s paintings. Chris had noticed Peter admiring them. The man loved art and literature. Chris had watched him from the corner of his eye while Peter dusted books, and he’d noted which ones Peter


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had taken down from the shelves and looked at, handled with… love almost, or at least with a gleam of affection in his eye. Christopher suppressed a sigh. When had someone last looked at him that way, touched him the way Peter had handled those books? When had he last wanted a man to do so? A decent sort and look what the poor sod was having to do to survive? Stand around wearing nothing but an apron in a stranger’s kitchen, hands in a bowl of hot sudsy water. If anyone should be ashamed, it was the owner of the house. “Here.” Christopher reached into where he knew an old black and white check apron happened to be. A gift from Charlotte, it had never been used; bought when Donald was carrying too much weight, it was too big for anyone else. “Raise your hands.” Peter’s gaze flicked to him, doubt and indecision etched into his face, but he lifted his arms out of the way. Christopher reached for the ties at the back of Peter’s apron, trying to do his best to ignore the honeyed skin beneath. He couldn’t help his gaze lowering to perky wellformed buttocks. He could have happily dropped to his knees, nibbled and sucked on them. Pull yourself together. He did his best not to brush against Peter’s body as he lifted the loop from the apron over Peter’s head. For just a minute Peter was standing completely naked in his kitchen; it took all of Christopher’s resolve not to do something about it. He breathed in and caught the smell of light aftershave and warm skin. He also caught on to the other man’s tension. No point trying to seduce a straight man. He dropped the black and white apron over Peter’s head, drew it around his body. As he had thought, because of the size, it overlapped at the back. “Would you believe Donald would have fitted into this thing?” “No?” Peter sounded incredulous. “Yes. He was always big, but ironically, after we moved in together he seemed to grow more content and let himself go. He used to do the washing-up. I used to dry. It’s


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been a long time since I’ve had a man standing at my kitchen sink. I guess Charlotte didn’t think of that.” “I’m sorry if I’ve brought back bad memories.” “Not bad. Good. I haven’t allowed myself to feel this good for a long while. After you’ve cried enough you have to remember the good stuff, you know? If you don’t, the bad kills you. You haven’t hurt me, Peter. You’ve made me smile.” “I bet Donald never stood naked at the kitchen sink.” Peter voice contained some humour. “No. No he didn’t. Not in an apron either. This was an unwanted gift.” Almost as if his hand belonged to another person, Christopher reached out and gently traced the line of Peter’s spine. He hadn’t meant to, hadn’t even realised he’d been gazing at the man’s back so intently until he dared to touch the enticing curve. He was sorry the moment he did it, expecting Peter to turn, punch his lights out, storm out of here. He’d never see him again, and he was sorry for that, even if it were unlikely they’d end up as friends at the end of the six weeks. What he hadn’t expected was the shiver that ran through Peter’s body, the sharp intake of breath. That wasn’t the reaction of a straight man. “Peter?” “I… um…” It didn’t take a computer analyst to work out Peter was trying to find a way to explain his reaction. He reached out and, by placing a hand on the man’s shoulder, turned Peter around to face him. The man moved slowly, head lowered, wet hands going to his sides. He wiped them down the apron. “I… er… think I should… maybe leave…” He said it, but didn’t move. “Peter?” “Yes?” “Do you date men or women?” “Women.”


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“Always?”

“I…”

“Peter?”

A red flush flooded the other man’s face.

“Have you ever dated a man?”

Peter’s head made small movements side to side. “N-Not dated.”

“Bedded?” The question was crude, and Christopher kicked himself, but he

couldn’t take it back. “Once.” Peter said it so quietly, if there had been any other sound in the room, it would have been inaudible. He swallowed and when next he spoke, his voice got a little louder. “It… wasn’t anything. Just… one night. Just… happened.” “You regret it?” Peter’s gaze lifted. The man looked at him from under his brow. “I thought I did. I didn’t think anything of it. I mean, I chose not to think of it. It was easier just to dismiss it, put it down to experience. One incident doesn’t rule your life.” “No, it doesn’t.” Christopher took a deep breath. “Damn, Peter. I should step back, apologise, and tell you to go home. But, the truth is I want you. I haven’t wanted anyone this much in a long time, and I’m selfish enough to see what you’ll do if I kiss you.” Implode probably. Christopher closed the gap between them, rested the fingers of each hand on the outside of Peter’s triceps. The touch was light, tentative, barely there. He could feel trembling, like a vibration, under Peter’s skin. “I’m not mistaking your reason for being here. This isn’t part of your job description, you know.” He hated saying the words -- they made even this light connection feel awkward and sordid -- but he had to make sure Peter understood. Peter nodded, but his gaze darted left and right as if he sought a way to break free. If he were any judge, then Peter was looking for a way to escape something he couldn’t run from. Or maybe Christopher was just projecting his own desires into Peter’s reactions. He hoped not.


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Christopher slowly ran his hands up, moving his fingers to Peter’s shoulders and then up his neck, gradually increasing the pressure, rubbing, kneading the skin and muscle beneath. He wished he could magically stroke the man’s tension right up out of his skin. It was as if he had all the power, all the control, and Peter was a doll he could bend to his will. That wasn’t what Christopher wanted. He brought their faces close, their bodies following. Chest against chest, groin to groin, there was no mistaken it -- a hard length pointed right at him, pushing against the restricting material of the apron. He rested their foreheads together. They stood there a moment, in silence. “Do you want to take this upstairs?” Chris whispered. He pulled back enough to look at Peter’s face. A few tears escaped the man’s glistening eyes to roll down his face. He wasn’t crying as such, and Christopher knew what this was: catharsis. Peter’s nod made his head jerk as if he were a puppet, but at least when Christopher took his hand and began to lead, he went willingly.

Chapter Four All the way up the stairs, Peter could feel Christopher’s thumb rubbing little comforting circles on the back of his hand. He followed in a trance, feeling numb. He was still trying to work out what had happened when they walked into a bedroom, which was pristine compared to other areas of the house, mahogany and blue, surprisingly masculine, or so he would have thought for a gay man. Then again, he wouldn’t have called himself gay, yet he was the one wearing only an apron allowing another man to lead him into his bedroom with the clear intention of having sex. Oh God! What is he going to want me to do? In combination with the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, his tummy fluttered with the stirrings of a thrill. His cock felt delighted, apparently, had stood at attention since Christopher touched him. He couldn’t explain why Christopher’s fingers had sent little shocks up his spine. It was as if the moment that happened, he had known he would end up here. Christopher turned to him, a hand going to the back of Peter’s neck, fingers lacing into his hair teasing the scalp. Tugging, pulling him forward by degrees, that hand applied pressure, kneading flesh, tilting his head. When it began to feel as if Christopher’s restraining hand exerted real influence, ironically, the man said, “I’m not into force.” Those eyes leaked concern. “You’re still shaking.” “Nerves,” Peter rasped out. “I wasn’t exactly expecting this.” “Makes two of us.” Christopher studied his face. “You really have no idea how tempting you are.” “I’m not.” Peter shook his head as much as Christopher’s grip would allow. “But you are.”


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Fingertips fluttered over his face; wherever they landed, it was as if they stung him. Peter hadn’t believed it was possible to feel so much from such a light touch. Those fingers traced his lips, the index finger just a little more persistent, forcing its way into the gap. It breached the barrier of his teeth, even though his teeth scraped along the digit then played with the pad of his tongue. “Hot and wet,” Christopher said, and Peter’s breath hitched in his throat. Those bright intelligent eyes scoured his face, examined his gaze. “You don’t have to do this, but if you want this experience, I’ll take good care of you, see you through it. If you want to leave, I won’t try to persuade you to stay. I won’t even tell Wash-ups if you don’t turn up next week. Just know I want you, and I haven’t wanted anyone for a long time. I can’t tell whether you’re about to turn tail and run or throw yourself into my arms, so which is it to be, Peter?” Peter wasn’t sure. “Just…” “What?” “Kiss me. Maybe then I’ll know.” One could hope, but he didn’t know if a kiss could cure his jitters. Christopher took Peter at his word, putting his tongue where his finger had so recently been. Although Peter didn’t so much kiss him back as stand there and let it happen, he took his time, kept their connection gentle, exploring, tongues dueling. He eventually pulled away by gently nibbling on Peter’s lips. Peter stood there, just as Christopher had said, a rabbit frozen, blinking into the headlights. “Was that too soft? Is this more what you expected?” Chris asked, experiencing a kind of savage glee as his second kiss turned into more of an attack, one Peter welcomed, it seemed, when Chris finally felt him react. Although Peter’s mouth moved by degrees, Chris could feel an underlying hunger. Taking little backward steps to the bed, Chris managed to manoeuvre Peter further into the room without having to do anything other than kiss him. Out of the corner of his eye, he fumbled for the photo frame beside the bed and laid it face down.


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Pulling back, Chris began to unbutton his shirt. Peter’s gaze followed the movement of his fingers as if mesmerised. “It’s just a chest,” Chris said when Peter’s eyes widened as he removed the garment. “I thought it might do to level the playing field a bit.” Peter’s flushed gaze flashed down and then back up, clearly remembering he wore nothing but an apron. “Or is it that you find my chest agreeable?” Peter’s colour deepened. “At least for a forty-two year old,” Chris added, laughing gently. “You look just fine,” Peter said, voice fading, tone sounding thick with emotions too strong to express or deny. Not knowing what to say, Christopher removed his trousers but kept his underwear. “How about we move this to the bed?” Chris took one of Peter’s hands raising it to his lips, placing a little kiss there, following it with a suck. Peter’s gaze kept darting about, but he didn’t pull away. He moved onto the bed as directed, lying back against the pillows. Chris crawled up beside him. Looping his fingers in the top part of the apron, he used the material as a handle to keep Peter in place and went in for another kiss. He had an ulterior motive for his grip. It exposed Peter’s nipples. Several kisses later, Chris looked to where Peter’s nipples had risen to stiff peaks. The room wasn’t cold, but neither was it hot. The result was perfect. Chris bent his head and blew on the left nipple, assaulting it with a hot tongue a moment later, and then blew on it again. The flesh puckered and Peter gasped. Chris leaned over and did the same to the right, only this time following it up by pursing his lips and sucking, hard. Peter shivered under him, let out a sound just short of a whimper. A glance revealed that Peter had pulled his bottom lip between his teeth and bit down. Hoping Peter wouldn’t bite too hard in response, Chris nipped the teat. The resulting groan must have caused Peter to let go of his lip for it popped free, looking a little bruised and swollen, perfect for sucking on or pursing around a hard intrusion.


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Not yet. Not today. Chris could tell that the one thing he shouldn’t risk was rushing this. Going to his knees, Chris worked his way down the other man’s body, licking, sucking, and nibbling the bare areas he could reach, finally running his face over the bulge beneath the apron. He placed his mouth over it, breathing hot air through the cotton. The resulting cry exploding from Peter’s throat was music to his ears. He mouthed the erection with lips and teeth, savouring the strange feel and texture. It didn’t look as if Peter realised it, but he was writhing on the bed, thrusting his hips up, as if he simply couldn’t keep still. Chris wanted to flip up the flap of the apron and take him into his throat, but you couldn’t do such things so easily these days, even though he’d bet a year’s salary that Peter was clean. In fact, he was so sure, there was one thing he was willing to chance. He didn’t flip the apron up as he wanted, but rolled it gently, revealing a neat smattering of very tight curls. A few inches down nestled a heavy pair of balls. He took to licking them. From there it was but a step to nibbling that soft foreskin, sucking on it, chewing, fingers keeping the cock beneath encased. He stopped when he was sure Peter had started to drip, and sure enough, as he eased the skin back, a silver pearl fell out into the world to twinkle and glisten seductively. Time to get this covered so he could work on it better. Chris reached into the drawer of the bedside cabinet. He even had enough presence of mind left to check the date on the packet, and that it wasn’t a long never-used box back from the time he shared this bed permanently with another man. What man or woman didn’t prefer a bare cock, but oddly enough, once he had it covered, he didn’t mind so much. There was something almost kinky about the sight of Peter’s penis covered in sheer latex. It wasn’t going to taste so great though, but Chris’s senses were on overload. He lowered his head until he felt the satisfaction of something hitting the back of his throat. For the first time since Donald’s death, he didn’t feel as if he were betraying his memory, but rather as if he were celebrating his life. If there was something Donald had loved, it was hitting the back of his lover’s throat.


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He came up. “Is that nice?” Peter’s tightly closed eyes fluttered and then opened wide. “Are you fucking kidding me?” His voice sounded strangled. His gaze looked glazed. His body was drunk on hormones, but no used telling him that, bringing him back to reality. That would happen soon enough. So you just keep quiet and take advantage? He couldn’t do that. “You’re lying in the bed of a man you barely know, getting your cock sucked. Once you come, you’re going to realise it and wonder what the fuck you’ve done, so think about it, and tell me now if you want to stop.” He didn’t know how he was going to do that if Peter ordered him off, but he’d do his best. That throat worked, jumping. Peter’s hands worked the covers, gripping, pulling. “Can’t…” The word gave Christopher’s heart a jolt. Was Peter trying to say he couldn’t do this? “Can’t stop.” Thank the heavens for that. He could tell that, for Peter, abstinence and maybe the unusual situation itself was doing half his work for him. He eased off, changing his point of attack, battering Peter’s navel with circular licks. Nibbling Peter’s ribs as if they were succulent straight from the barbecue drew little gasps out of the man’s mouth and caused helpless twisting of his torso. Ah, an erogenous zone. He attacked until Peter’s pleas turned plaintive. Granting mercy, Chris turned to kissing the tight curls, which began at the man’s abdomen and were so soft and fragrant against his lips, he wondered whether Peter conditioned the hair down there. Maybe he treated the whole of his body with such care, for the hair on his thighs and even down in darker crevices had the same smell. Beneath the smell of whatever the man washed with, was the musk of a warm body and arousal. Back to his balls, sucking on first one and then exchanging it for the other, Chris mouthed them, rolling them on his tongue as if they were some kind of succulent ripe fruit. Letting them pop out of his mouth in turn, well nuzzled and wet, he turned his


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head to kiss Peter’s thighs, discovering another area that made the man tremble under him with something other than nerves. The fingers clawing into his hair were an unexpected bonus. A triumphant Yes! resounded throughout his brain. He might have heard an Oh God! in there somewhere, but the rush of blood in his ears made it difficult to concentrate. If he were struggling to think clearly, how could Peter be expected to remain coherent? All Chris could concentrate on was having his senses assaulted by the feel of velvety tender skin quivering beneath his touch. Even his own erection seemed to take a back seat to the reactions of the man practically begging for his attention. All those sucking of lollipops as a kid must have been a subconscious way of preparing him for this. It wasn’t the taste he wanted, so Chris settled for sensation. Even through the condom, he could feel the shape of the soft glans he wanted to lavish with much investigation. He set to work tracing the ridge and the “v” at the back up to the slit, drawing the outline with his tongue. Peter put up with this repeatedly for as long as he could, but apparently, he had limits. What Chris suspected was purely an automotive thrust of hips forced half of Peter’s length down his throat. Unable to ignore his own needs any longer, Chris slipped his other hand into his underwear, drawing out his cock. “Oh fuck, please,” whispered around the bedroom and a shattering thought entered Christopher’s mind. Donald never begged. At once apologising to his dear departed, Chris opened his throat and went down, keeping a good grip on both Peter’s cock and its cover. He didn’t want to inhale a piece of latex by accident. He’d always been good at this, taking long deep strokes in a steady rhythm. He tried to match it to the strokes he gave himself. No way could Peter go where no man had been before, and yet his body bucked as if he sought to reach the parts no one else had ever touched. Hands and mouth working, Chris teased the man’s testicles, and even sought to tickle him a little more intimately as he felt everything in Peter’s body grow tense. “Oh shhhhhh…”


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Peter failed to complete the curse as his voice petered off to a wild keening amid much thrashing on the bed, while Christopher struggled to hold on to him as well as to force himself over the edge. However, it was impossible to hold onto Peter and his own cock as well. It didn’t matter. As if Peter’s responses were more than enough stimulation, his own strangled cry forced Christopher to release Peter’s cock from his mouth as his own body gave way to an orgasm. He had just a moment to think, How the fuck did that happen? Then the tide took him over, and for one mind-numbing moment, all he knew was the sweet pulse that circumstances and his damaged heart had so long denied him.

Chapter Five It was difficult to judge what felt more disconcerting: the fact that Peter laid in bed with a man, or the fact that he was on some level enjoying it. On another level that he resolutely stifled and shoved down, Peter felt sick to his stomach and sick at heart. He knew this. He just couldn’t focus on it. He daren’t. Didn’t even want to. Much better just to lie warm and comfortable, with Christopher snuggled behind him, not quite close enough to spoon, but an arm draping his waist. He didn’t know how long they’d lain there. He couldn’t remember getting into bed, although he had a vague recollection of Chris pulling the cover over them both. He didn’t even know how long he’d been awake. It was as if he just suddenly realised he’d been staring into space for some time. What have I done? Don’t think about it. It doesn’t have to mean anything, change anything. Probably wouldn’t anyway. No reason Christopher would be interested. Whoa. No reason I’d be interested. It was an aberration. He’d allowed himself a moment of pleasure. Maybe the wrong type of pleasure, being it was with the wrong person, but hell, who could blame him? He’d been celibate for so long, and even before Crystal left, sex between them had already become a ticking time bomb of anger powered by exhaustion. He could put it all down to a breakdown of some kind, maybe depression. Funny then, how right now, he didn’t feel depressed. He felt calm. It was almost as if he felt worried over what he’d done because that was how he believed he should feel. He only sucked me. I didn’t do him. It’s not as if I let him f…


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The man behind him murmured, shifted, snuggled in closer. Something poked Peter in the backside, and it didn’t take a leap of imagination to work out what. “Ss-sorry,” Chris mumbled, pulling his hips back. A yawn indicated the man’s return to the world of the conscious. A hand stroked over his shoulder. Warm lips followed. Peter lay frozen. “Are you all right?” The dreaded question. “You don’t have to respond if you don’t want to. You don’t have to do anything, say anything. I’d like it if --” “What time is it?” He felt Christopher move and presumed the man was looking over his shoulder at an alarm clock. “Just after four.” “I should have left an hour ago.” “Have you anywhere to be?” “I… No.” Pitiful. “Then why don’t you stay for dinner?” Ergo was he truly going to run like a coward? “I’d like that,” Peter said before he realised he was going to say it, surprised to find it was true. Christopher scrambled out of the bed. Peter gave him a moment before he sat up. He looked up from under his brow. Chris had slipped on jeans and a t-shirt. From his movements, he seemed to be sliding his feet into shoes or slippers that Peter couldn’t see from his spot in the bed. At the same time, Chris combed his hair down with his fingers. Then he looked over. Peter dropped his gaze, but not before they looked at each other. His clothes were in the other room. All he had in here was an apron. He recalled Peter lifting it, but at some point, maybe while he was luxuriating in the afterglow, clearly he’d helped with its removal. Would he expect Peter to put it back on? He didn’t see how he could now. Things felt different. “My clothes…” “Stay where you are. I’ll get them.”


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***

“Hope you like pasta,” Christopher said as Peter walked into the kitchen. “I don’t have a lot in, but I can usually rustle something up as long as there’s pasta.” Rustle something up? The man was chopping red onions, garlic, chorizo sausage and some other kind of sausage Peter didn’t know the name of. He’d torn leaves off a fresh basil plant and there were fresh tomatoes on the vine in at least two varieties. “What can I do?” “Grate the parmesan. I always like it freshly grated instead of that packet stuff.” He could manage that. Peter set to work, enjoying the oddly companionable silence only broken by the sound of their tasks. When it felt as if one of them should say something, Peter said the first thing that came into his head. “Does it sound strange to say it feels peculiar to stand in your kitchen with my clothes on?” Chris didn’t reply immediately so he looked over. The man was smirking, his expression one of total merriment. He flicked his gaze Peter’s way. “Does it sound strange to say I find this far sexier than the apron?” They looked at each other and then laughed. “Try one of these,” Christopher said, lifting a small red tomato to Peter’s lips. “Straight from the garden.” Peter was so shocked, he blinked, and opened his mouth even as he stared into Christopher’s gaze. The man nudged the small red ball into Peter’s mouth. Peter bit. The skin popped, exploded, a sweet sharp tang saturating his mouth. He chewed enough to swallow. The kiss that followed took him by surprise, not because it hadn’t registered that Christopher was leaning in, but because of the fierceness of it. The other man’s tongue delved in, had to taste the tomato, had to be tasting him. Their teeth clashed, but Christopher didn’t let up. He walked Peter back solely with the pressure of his lips until he bumped up against the counter. Hands cupped his arse, lifted him. For the first time, Peter felt the strength in the man’s sturdy arms and broad chest. Peter had no choice but to grip the base of the cabinet for balance.


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The kiss continued. Even when Christopher’s lips moved on from his mouth, it was to kiss his face, his jaw, his chin, working back up the other side to his cheekbones and across his eyelids. Chris leaned in, foreheads together. “I know you must be thinking so many things, asking yourself so many questions. I’m trying not to rush you, but I’m struggling to keep my hands off you.” “Guess that doesn’t include your lips,” Peter said, wishing he hadn’t the moment he did. “I’ll concede that,” Chris said, although his tone didn’t convince Peter that he found the comment funny. More likely, he was just trying to keep things calm between them, if one could call the fact that the man had him pressed up against a solid piece of furniture, fingers clawing and digging into his arse cheeks, calm. “It’s difficult for me. You’re my kind of guy.” “I’m don’t sound anything like Donald.” “You’re not. You’re everything he wasn’t. I’m not looking to replace Donald. You’re intelligent. You make me laugh. You like art, books and music. You even look fascinated by the fact I grow a few things in the garden.” “What’s so odd about that?” “The kind of men I’ve known and work with like a sterile type of lifestyle. The garden is my link to nature. Reminds me this world isn’t based on computer chips, flashing images, and steel buildings. I need a balance of those things in my life, something to counteract them. Hence the garden.” “I’ve lost the train of the conversation somewhere. How were you saying this had something to do with me?” “I love that you like my garden, my greenhouse, want to get out there with me. I love that you like my art even if it is shit.” “It’s not --” “If I have to shut you up, it’ll be with a kiss.” It surprised Peter enough that it crossed his mind to make Chris follow through on his threat. By that time, Chris was speaking again.


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“I’m saying that there are a lot of things I like about you, things I never even shared with Donald. On top of that, you’re compassionate and sexy as hell, and you make the sweetest noises when you orgasm.” Heat rose to Peter’s face. He would have turned his head away if there were any room to do so. “If we were on the same wavelength I’d right out ask you to give us a chance.” “You mean a date?” “I mean a relationship. But if I dare to suggest you might enjoy being gay, you’re going to be fighting me off in five minutes. Or are you? ’Cos you see,” Christopher’s arms wove up around and behind him, pulling him close, inserting his body between Peter’s spread thighs, “the way you respond to me, I can’t help wondering if you can imagine it. Look me in the eye,” Christopher tipped his head back, forcing Peter to do just that, “and tell me, if I said I wanted desperately to fuck you that you can’t imagine it, aren’t wondering what it would be like to have me sink into you.” What was he supposed to say to that when Christopher was looking at him so intently, and making him feel so alive, the other man’s desire and need shining out of his eyes? He couldn’t remember anyone ever looking at him that way. He couldn’t remember wanting… Wanting? Peter swallowed. Yes, wanting. Wanting something for himself. Wanting something crazy, something he’d never thought himself capable of. Wanting to let go and react rather than considering all the alternatives. Having to second guess his decisions, weighing up pros and cons, and all the time thinking, thinking, thinking about what choices were right, and if he made the wrong one, what of the consequences? The other man was nodding as if to say, “See.” Peter shook his head, swallowed. “I can’t say I don’t want it. I want to do something totally off the wall, something no one who knew me would imagine me doing, I guess. And I can’t say I wouldn’t like to do that with you. I can talk to you. No matter what you say, your painting isn’t shit. Your choice of books is excellent. And yes,


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I love your garden and the fact that you enjoy getting your hands dirty. I appreciate you thinking so highly of me at a time in my life when I’m feeling worse than useless. And if I were going to go with a man… well,” Peter glanced away to gather his courage before looking back, “then you’re easy on the eye and easy company. Trouble is even if I decided to do something so unpredictable, I couldn’t promise you a future. Clearly, you loved Donald. You deserve --” Christopher had placed a hand over his mouth silencing him. “Let’s get over the part where I sink into you first, shall we?” Peter was stunned, stumped, and stuck like a bug, pinned for dissection under that twinkling gaze.

*** How had it come to this? He was once again naked, this time bent over the back of Christopher’s sofa. The design was such that the thick padded curve gave his body much needed support without being uncomfortable. The back was low enough he could reach down and brace his hands on the seat. “I-I’m not sure about this.” “Neither am I,” Christopher said, but he didn’t sound it. “I’m longing to look in your eyes when I take you, but you say you’ve never done this. I plan on opening you up first.” “What about dinner?” He injected enough humour into his voice to let Christopher know he was nervous but not backing out. He felt excited and aroused, although he still couldn’t believe it, but unmistakably nervous. “Dinner’s not going anywhere.” “But…” He couldn’t really want this. The dick doesn’t lie. Or so some people said, but then one’s dick never listened to reason. You’re single. You’re alone. It doesn’t matter what choices you make. They’re affecting no one but you. This was sort of the problem. He was scared to death of making the wrong decision and petrified in case this was the right one. He’d never considered


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having a relationship with a man, not that his partnerships with women had ever amounted to much. “Stop trying to stand upright.” Christopher’s voice brought him back to his predicament. That was when he realised he had been trying to straighten, and an insistent hand pressed him forward. “But I… this isn’t…” Romantic?

“Feeling vulnerable?”

Yes, as a matter of fact. A foot nudged his legs apart. “No,” Peter said.

“No, you’re not feeling vulnerable, or no you don’t want to continue?”

“I… um … Oh shit.” A hand had reached between his legs and pulled his

erection down and backwards. The line of the sofa kept his cock in place pointing down. It felt as if he moved, it would spring up with such force as to slap him in the stomach. Although he could sense and even feel Christopher’s presence behind him, he could tell the man was standing far enough back to take a good look. He closed his eyes as though that would do any good. As if by closing his eyes Christopher wouldn’t be seeing what Peter knew he had to be seeing: all his personal bits dangling and even… oh God, even the dark cleft between his buttocks. “Dimples,” Christopher said, a smile in his voice. Peter laughed. “You’re not the first to say I have dimp… Oh!” His skin must be glowing. “I take it others mean the sweet dimples that appear when you’re smiling. I hope I’m the only one who gets to see this particular smile from now on.” That sounded a little too presumptuous, but now was not the time to protest. Christopher took a grip of his hips and crouched. Peter knew enough about gay sex to anticipate a number of things. “You’re not going to…” He choked on the rest of the words as Christopher did what he was dreading. Strange thing: the longer that tongue rimmed him, the more Peter couldn’t remember why he was objecting.


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Christopher sweetly punished that small dark aperture with his tongue until he’d reduced Peter to a shivering wreck. Determining that he’d thoroughly and pleasingly brutalised Peter’s sensitive nerve-endings enough, he stood up. Now to work the quivering man open with lube and fingers. One to start. A second to follow. By the time he worked up to it, three should do the trick.

Chapter Six He was going to keep Peter bent over the sofa just long enough for him to grow used to the first nudges and then a few inches. He planned to finish this down on his knees in front of the sofa, with Peter’s legs flung over his shoulders. For now, Christopher contented himself with leaning over Peter’s trembling back, fingers corkscrewing into an opening that gaped around the intrusion. He placed a hot kiss on Peter’s neck, and then set his teeth into skin, marking him. The man gave a shout, shuddering. Chris moved the kiss to the tender spot behind his ear and then sucked in an earlobe, biting down on that to the point of pain too. Mostly he did it to take Peter’s mind off the other pain. Mostly. “Oh, f-f-f-f…” Was that going to be a curse, or a prayer, or an indication that he just didn’t know why he was doing this? So fucking tight. Chris struggled to hold back. The ring of muscle around his cockhead seemed to flutter madly. “I don’t know if I can do this.” Peter’s words emerged on a gasp. “It’s the first time.” That was an inadequate explanation, but sadly true. No way to get round the first time. “I realise that. People wouldn’t do this if all it did was… h-hurt.” A strangled cry tightened Peter’s voice. Chris pulled back. Peter panted as he sagged almost in relief. “I didn’t realise I was hurting you that much. We can…” Peter was shaking his head. “I didn’t say I wanted you to stop. Just… take it a little easier.”


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So much for self-control. This time Chris eased back in by degrees, pushing two steps forward and taking one back, waiting each time even though he took all his control not to thrust. He reached under and pulled on Peter’s cock at the same time. That seemed to help. The spongy glans was already wet and soon Peter was moving his hips helplessly. Finally, and although he hadn’t intended to take it so far, Christopher had worked in every available inch, and said so. “What?” Peter sounded shocked. He even reached back with fumbling fingers checking it was true. “Oh.” “Want to hear the funny part?” “What’s that?” “Now I’m in you, I’m going to pull out of you, and we’re going to take this to the front of the sofa. I want to watch your face when we speed things up.” To his shame, Peter caught himself lifting his own backside in offering. A flick of Christopher’s gaze said the other man had noticed. To be fair, if he were going through with this, then who could blame him for making things easier for himself? Liar. Make-believe calmed the nerves at times, and maybe there was a little truth in that helping Christopher enter him would save Peter from some pain, but that wasn’t why he was offering. Just like a gentleman, Chris took his time to work his way back in, letting Peter adjust and breathe through every inch he gained. He thought he’d felt embarrassed enough to lift his legs like a woman would, but when Chris almost casually slung said legs over his shoulders, Peter wondered if this was what it felt like to be a sub. It felt decidedly odd, although the more intimate invasion overrode the thought. So full. There was pain, but it seemed to be waging war with an underlying pleasure. He now likened the sensation to a physical representation of frustration. He didn’t know whether he wanted more or he wanted it to stop. Chris was moving now, and Peter couldn’t think past the feel of that cock, which felt twice the size he knew it was, vigorously rubbing the length of his chamber walls. Deeper. Harder. He couldn’t believe he even thought that, certainly wasn’t going to say it


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out loud at this moment in time when he was still experiencing discomfort, but it was as if his body was reaching for something beyond his mind, beyond logical understanding. His body knew what it wanted and to hell with what his mind had to say on the subject. Everything was tightening, straining, hovering on the precipice. “Come with me,” Chris said. Peter wanted more than anything to do that. Chris was now working him, stroking him, helping him along. Unlike Christopher, Peter didn’t have a condom to fill. His head went back. His eyes didn’t seem to be working right. The warm splash of what felt like rain pattered down on to his stomach even as his body shuddered, tremors diminishing until he was still. The next thing he knew Chris was pulling out of him, and even though his anus closed down as if it were trying to cling to Christopher, Peter said a silent thank you. Despite how much fun he’d just had, easing down on the rush of endorphins, his body was just battered. Christopher’s weight slumping across him was a kind and comforting heaviness. Maybe next time would be better. Although he didn’t know if there’d be a next time, if the randy glint in Christopher’s eye was anything to go by, the man was already thinking of a third round. Would he even make it home tonight? Peter felt uncertain whether he’d be able to walk if Chris had his way.

*** “You going to run on me?” They lay in bed, side by side. Chris had finished preparing and cooking the dinner, and they’d eaten this time, both sitting naked at the dining table. Chris couldn’t get over the way Peter kept looking down every time he caught Christopher watching. Chris couldn’t help looking. He couldn’t help touching. That was why they’d ended up back in bed having a third bout of sex. “Considering it.” “I know. I can see it in your eyes. But?” Christopher ran his fingers through the hair grazing Peter’s forehead.


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“But I don’t want to. I’m not used to running from anything.” “I worked that out about you. You wouldn’t have turned up here in an apron if you did, although I still don’t get that. I know you said you’d fallen on hard times, but this doesn’t fly with me. It just doesn’t sit right.” “And you want to know your boyfriend isn’t completely insane.” “Boyfriend?” Peter coloured. “No, please. Say it again. It had a nice ring to it.” He could see hesitation and a thousand other emotions crowding in behind Peter’s eyes. Push, don’t pressure. “So what do you need this extra money for? It can’t amount too much.” “No, but just enough to help me pay back a loan I took out to pay for extra nursing care in my mother’s last weeks.” Peter sat up, wincing a little as he did, probably from their exertions. He rubbed a hand over his face. “Arrgghhh,” he groaned. “It’s okay,” he added, looking down to where Chris still lay. “I’ll be fine. I just need a job. The stupid thing is the NHS couldn’t provide what I needed so, it was either put her into a home, which would have cost even more, or… Well, there was talk of her going into hospital. She hated those places, and I didn’t want her to die in one. Every time I wavered, I just thought what if it was me? What would I hope someone would do for me?” Peter went quiet for a moment, and Chris let him have the silence, instinctively knowing the man wasn’t through talking. “I never let her know money was tight. Everything hit me all at once, that was all. I could afford the loan. Mum was leaving me the house. I’d been stuck renting for years because I couldn’t afford to buy in the area where I worked. Rent ate up most of my earnings so I didn’t have a lot saved and couldn’t dip into that. It was a stupid decision to rent. I should have at least commuted in from somewhere, but when you’re young, you don’t think of these things. By the time I seriously looked into a mortgage, I had moved in with mum. I was no longer paying rent, but I chose to treat her to a few holidays during the intervals when she was well enough.”


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Peter went silent, his gaze focused on another point in time. “Crystal complained. I know how that sounds, but in a way, I didn’t entirely blame her. Boyfriend spending all his spare time with his mother, and the only holiday we could have had to include all three of us, and only if mum was up to it. I even lied to mum about that, said I’d broken off the relationship. She didn’t like Crystal much so was quietly happy about that. I lied a lot to mum in those days. How was I to know…” Peter sniggered. “How was I to know I’d end up all washed up? I didn’t foresee a time when I would have to hire a private nurse, and even if I had, I was heading for a promotion; it should have all worked out. Next thing I know, mum dies, and I’m made redundant.” “Redundant?” “Yeah. Huntsman Enterprises bought out the company. Pissed me off royally at first. It’s like they own every damn thing in the area. They took on a few staff from our place, but not all chose to put forward their resumes. I hesitated. So many saw applying to the opposition as a betrayal, like someone crossing the picket line almost. I left it too late. Now I think I should give them another try. I may just do that. I’ve told the agency I’ll do any sort of job, but companies are wary you’ll use them as a stopgap and leave, and when they’re actually right, you can hardly blame them. I just know I can’t carry on like this. “Sure, the house is mine, but it’s one thing to sell it because I want to, another to sell it because I have to, and then I still need a place to live. Also, even though she left it to me, there’s still paperwork, and that’s going to take six months at least. Ironically, I’m lucky the market’s dropped, and the house isn’t worth quite what it was. It’s just under the bracket so I don’t have to pay inheritance tax.” Well, that was… Christopher didn’t know how to feel about all that. He was shocked Peter had opened up to him, just letting out the sum of his problems. He didn’t know how Peter would feel if -- when -- he discovered it was Christopher’s fault that he’d lost his job. It wasn’t as if he’d planned this. Coincidence or fate was the biggest bitch of all. It was amazing Peter hadn’t worked it out… or maybe he had.


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No. He’s not like that. Don’t go there. He had no idea you were a man when he came here, let alone who you are. Anyway, Christopher Hunter and Huntsman Enterprises wouldn’t necessarily connect in people’s minds. “So basically, you’ve worked really hard, put your life on hold to look after your mother, and no one’s cutting you a break.” He didn’t know why he said it. It was as if he needed to say it aloud to get his head around the facts. Peter shot him a look. “I wasn’t handing you a sob story. For some reason, you just get me talking.” “And gasping, and groaning, moaning, and whimpering. Don’t forget the whimpering.” Christopher managed to drag a grin up from somewhere. Peter shoved him, the movement a little embarrassed, a little playful. The good humour between them was welcome, but an already complex situation had just become even more complicated, and Christopher had no idea what he was going to do about it. “Will you stay the night?” It was clear Peter considered it. “We can work in the garden first thing. I have some old jeans that should fit. You won’t have to worry about getting dirty.” “The way to a man’s heart.” Peter laughed. “I’ll cook you breakfast.” “Even better. One thing.” Those light brown eyes shone on him. “Stand the photo frame back up. It didn’t escape me you turned it down. I take it it’s a photo of you and Donald? Well, whatever… You don’t have to hide it.” “I wasn’t hiding it from you, although I thought it might give you the creeps. Not everyone wants a photo of your ex looking at them when you have sex.” Peter seemed to think this through. “He’s not your ex. He was taken from you. He didn’t leave and you didn’t lose him. If he loved you, he wouldn’t begrudge you anything, so you shouldn’t have to turn his image face down. You’re not even


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protecting yourself; it’s damaging. If it’s unsettling to have it in the room when you have sex then move it, put it somewhere else.” “I’d be fine with it, but won’t you find it unnerving?” “You’re presuming we’re going to have more sex.” “I can hope.” It took Peter a moment to answer. “I don’t know how to feel about all this.” “I understand that.” He tried to tell Peter with those three simple words that he could take his time, but although they seemed able to talk more than most men did, he couldn’t manage to put that into words. He wanted more sex with this man, in so many ways. It took all his resolve not to go down on him again. Chris couldn’t help thinking that with a bit of renewed practiced, and if they reached a point where he could have the luxury of enjoying everything about Peter being naked, then he’d work on swallowing around Peter’s fat knob until he could make the man come by that sensation alone. This wasn’t just about sex, though. That would have made this easy. He wanted more from Peter than just sex -- he didn’t need any more time to know his feelings. He’d felt the same way with Donald: the same certainty. He’d give Peter time because he had no choice, but it was difficult as hell to know what he wanted and not just be able to claim it. Peter had the sexuality issue to deal with, and now, haunting that, whether he’d ever be able to love the man who had inadvertently if indirectly, taken away his job -- the very thing that had led him to don an apron in the first place.

Chapter Seven Nodding to Carl, his second in command at Huntsman Enterprises, Christopher flung himself into his luxurious leather executive’s chair, wishing it was his baggy stuffed armchair at home. “What do you think?” he asked Carl, not bothering to beat about the bush. “He may be worth hiring.”

Peter had sent in his resume.

“In fact, I’d say an interview would be a formality. The only position we have for

him, though, is the one Andrews is leaving. Peter Blake can start straight away which is handy, but it’s a little beneath him. My fear is he might get bored, and leave before he’s barely got started.” “He won’t.” It just slipped out. Carl stared across the table.

“Is there something I should know?”

“Fine. I’ll be…” Chris grinned, “straight with you. I’ve met Peter Blake.”

“Met?”

Christopher glared at him.

“Okay, I won’t ask you to spell it out. I just need to know if this is nepotism of

some kind.” “Like hiring my nephew?” “That’s keeping a family-run company in the family.” “Maybe your definition of nepotism differs to mine then.” Chris sighed. “The answer is no. Well, fine. Maybe it is, but you just said yourself he’s worth hiring.” “He would be if we had the right position for him.” “One may come up in time.” “We can’t just promote --”


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“Without seeming to advertise the job and interview for it. Come on, Carl, we do it all the time, and we’re not the only ones.” Carl nodded, remaining silent. “Fact is Peter -- Mr. Blake, needs this job. He’s not going to let the firm down, and I think he’ll be an asset.” “So the problem is? Chris, I know that look on your face.” “The problem is of a personal nature. Huntsman Enterprises put him out of work. He doesn’t know I own the company. He’ll think the same you do, that he’s getting preferential treatment.” “And he’s not?” “No. We’re not even an item.” Except for my fucking him rather a lot lately. “He’s not gay. Or, may not be. I’m not sure.” “Chris, Chris, Chris.” Carl threw his head back and looked at the ceiling. “I’m not asking you to worry about any of that. Just interview him. Make your own decision. If you hire him, then well, the rest is my problem.” “No. It’s mine when he finds out who you are and storms out without giving notice.” “He won’t.” He was fairly certain Peter wouldn’t do that. He might give notice though, but that would provide Christopher with the time to talk him round. “If you hire him, then I want him treated the same as any other employee. I won’t get involved.” He shouldn’t get involved. Alas, his heart already was. Peter hadn’t mentioned his upcoming interview so Chris had struggled to keep silent about it. He’d celebrate with Peter when he had the job. He’d pictured it, Peter rushing round to tell him about the offer, throwing himself into Christopher’s arms, his joy bubbling over into a quick shift from the living room to the bedroom. Chris would worry about explaining in a few weeks time. None of that happened. What he got was a phone call. “Hello? Mr. Hunter?”


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“Yes.” “It’s Nicole calling from Walker’s Wash-ups. Sorry to disturb you like this, but I’m afraid that Peter has left our employ and won’t be able to complete the last week of the contract. We can, however, send someone else around, and if you get on, we’d like to offer you an additional month at half price. His name is…” “No, that’s, er, fine. I don’t want a replacement. This wasn’t really my idea, anyway.” “Oh, well, we don’t usually issue a refund.” The woman on the other end of the line didn’t sound at all certain. “I can enquire if you like, seeing as the fault lies on our side.” “I’m not asking for one. Keep the pay. Peter…” earned it. “He managed to raise a smile.” “A smile?” “Never mind. And thanks for calling.” Christopher hung up.

*** Fingers clicked in front of his face. Peter blinked. The monitor came back into focus. His chair made a little click sound as he swiveled it slightly to look at the person who had gained his attention. “You’re a million miles away.” “Sorry, Fran.” “Have we bored you silly on your third day?” “No. No!” He couldn’t have anyone thinking that. Fortunately, as he turned his undoubtedly anxious gaze to her, it was easy to see she was teasing. “I’m just getting back into the swing of things.” “Jobs are like men,” Fran replied. “Can’t live with them, can’t live without them. I hate getting up to an alarm clock. You’ll get used to it again sooner rather than later. Here.” She placed several folders on his desk for attention. “I’ll pick them up tomorrow.” She walked off.


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If only it was that simple, and all he needed to get used to was the routine. What he missed was his weekend schedule. He missed Christopher’s company. He missed… The sex? Christopher? Conversation? What? All of the above? Doesn’t matter. It didn’t; couldn’t. He put his feelings down to an adrenaline rush, and as he’d stopped having sex that should fade. Given time. It would. It had to. The man might well be like a well-lived in and well-loved house, but Peter was not about to set up house with another man. Still, Christopher deserved his respect. He should have called him. Instead, he’d avoided him all weekend except for Sunday morning when he’d sent him a text: Hi. Got a respectable job. Thanks for everything. What kind of text was that to send? He couldn’t believe he’d included the word respectable. It made what they’d shared sound anything but decent. No wonder he hadn’t received a reply.

*** The job required far less intellectual capacity than Peter had available to him, so he completed the work just ten minutes after the working day ended. He wasn’t staying on to impress. He’d just been engrossed, pleasantly numb of thought, so that he’d continued until he had it finished. Then he’d looked at the clock. He was now headed to the lift, so he might as well pop up three flights to drop the folder on Fran’s desk. To his surprise, he had to sign in on Fran’s floor and show his ID. He also had to explain to the security man what he was doing there. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realise there was so much security up here,” Peter said. “Maybe I can just leave it here with you for her.” “Can’t do that, sir.” The guard took a second look at his identification. “Peter Blake?” he said. “Yes.” Oddly, it didn’t sound as if the guard was speaking to him. “Just a minute.” The guard mumbled something into a phone. Peter, who had stood back to be polite, caught his name and a “Yes, sir.” After hanging up, the guard failed to issue any further instructions, so Peter presumed he should wait.


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“Peter?” It was Carl, the man who had interviewed and hired him. Peter took the proffered hand. “What are you doing up here?” He sounded pleasant enough, but Peter caught something in the query that sent a frisson of uneasiness through him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know I wasn’t allowed.” “Ah, well, it’s no big deal. We just keep some sensitive paperwork up here and in the basement, so both areas require people to sign in and out. That’s for Fran? I’ll take it.” “Sir?” The guard was standing up. Carl looked to him and then at the clock. “Yes, you can go now, Walter. I’ll sign Mr. Blake out. There’s only me and…” Carl stopped. “Mr. Hunter?” The guard said in all innocence. If there were one job Peter would never hire Carl for, it was secret intelligence. Carl nodded and both he and Peter stood waiting in silence as if they had some important business to transact in private while the guard locked up his station and then left. “Where is he?” Peter asked. “Mr. Blake --” “Where is he?” Peter didn’t wait. He headed off in the direction from which Carl had emerged. “Blake. Peter!” A hand on his forearm stopped him and turned him around. Seeming to realise what he had done, Carl let go. “He’s a good man. He didn’t hire you under false pretences. We were stupid not to keep you on. We’d be stupid to lose you now. You’re the one who applied to us, remember?” “For a job I’m overqualified for. That makes me feel I’m keeping someone else out of this job.” “Maybe you are, but I’m hoping we can make better use of you soon enough. It was short-sighted of us not to screen all the workers when we-we…” “Did a hostile takeover of the company I worked for? And what’s all this Huntsman lark? Downstairs that’s what they call him. It’s on all the paperwork, but up here he’s Hunter?”


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Carl shifted from one foot to the other. “It’s just the way it is. He uses the name of the firm. It’s just people like me and the guard, Walter, have worked for him for so long, well, half the time he’s not even Mr. Hunter. He’s Christopher, or Chris.” “How demonstrative. All one big happy family and friends. I didn’t sign on to be part of the family.” “I don’t know how you and Mr. Hunter know each other, and I don’t care. You need to look at the job separately from whatever else is…” Carl waved a hand in the air, turning red. “You didn’t sign on for this? Well I…” He paused. “I didn’t sign up for this shit,” he said suddenly, gazing somewhere beyond Peter’s left shoulder. Peter turned, knowing who he would see standing there. “You can leave us, Carl.” Christopher made that sound so reasonable, just as he made everything sound reasonable. Damn if the sound of his voice didn’t give Peter a little jolt in his heart. He was angry, damn it! He was not going to feel anything else. When he judged Carl to be far enough away and still walking, Peter spoke keeping his voice low. “You may have hired me to wash your dishes, but you don’t get to pay for anything else.” Christopher flinched and so did Peter; even he was surprised at the level of animosity in his voice. “Are you going to let me explain, or are you just going to glower at me?” Peter didn’t know what to do, but for a moment, his whole body fused. He couldn’t move; he couldn’t speak. “I didn’t know who you were, or that I’d indirectly made you redundant until that night in my room. Then, when you talked about applying here, I didn’t want to do or say anything that might alter your decision. When your resume arrived, I admit I had told Carl to look out for it. I asked his opinion, and he decided to give you the job. The only reason he hesitated was, as you say, the fact that you’re overqualified. None of the rest of it is bullshit.” “Why didn’t you say anything? How did you think I wasn’t going to find out?” “I’m not always here. I’m away on business. I’m taking more time off. Sometimes I work long hard hours. Sometimes I don’t. I try to keep the weekends free. Since


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Donald, I make sure I have almost all my weekends off. When I have to, I work up here or from home. When I work from home, I make sure I work. I don’t procrastinate, and I don’t stare out into the garden. You’ve been here three days, and you would have made it to the end of the week without knowing a thing if you hadn’t come up here.” “It’s my fault I caught you?” Chris gave him a look Peter knew he deserved. “You can hardly blame me for that comment.” “But I do. You’re smarter than that. You’re also better than…” Christopher’s face turned dark, what looked to be a hint of purple bruising his cheeks. “Better than what?” “Better than to send someone a text practically saying thanks for the memory, you can fuck off now.” A wave of nausea rose up in his throat. “You know why I did that.” “Yes, because you’re ashamed of what you’ve done. And if I’m sorry for anything, it’s that. Because I’m not ashamed, Peter. I’m not ashamed to love you, and have made love to you. Truth is, I can imagine loving you the rest of my life, but you’ve made it quite clear that isn’t what you want. I can’t fight it if this was just an unexpected occurrence in your life. Don’t stand there and tell me you have no interest in men, because I know better.” Chris sighed. “But fine. If you’ve decided you prefer women, then I’m not going to waste my breath trying to persuade you otherwise. I just hope you find the right someone to be happy with, because people do that for those they love. They wish them happiness. They try to provide it if they can, and if they can’t, they push the person they love to find it elsewhere. The job isn’t based on anything we’ve shared, not the way you think it is. It’s a push. It’s my gift to you. It’s no hardship on my part to hire a good man who will be a good employee. You don’t have to stay here forever. You can use it as a push. Get yourself a life, Peter. Get out and find the happiness you’ve so clearly expressed I can’t give you.” “Chris…”


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“No.” Chris held up a hand as if he had to block whatever Peter might say. “I don’t hate you. I don’t want there to be hate between us. I don’t want it to end like that. I just want you to turn up tomorrow and do your job for however long you decide it’s right for you, even if it’s only for a few weeks or months until you find something else. In that time, I’ll stay out of your way. My sister hired you to raise a smile and to make me feel what it was like to have a man around the house again. You did both and I can’t thank you enough for that.” Despite what he said, Christopher’s smile was painful to see. “I have no idea how I’m going to find another man like you, Peter, but at least you’ve made me want to try. Just…” Chris shook his head. “There’s nothing more to say.” He turned away, walking; his back straight in an exaggerated fashion that Peter was sure was more an act than anything. There was more to say. Peter knew it. He just didn’t know how to say it.

Chapter Eight Peter had been working at Huntsman Enterprises for two months when he bumped into Charlotte on the street. They both looked at each other, both coloured slightly, and both stammered a greeting. “How is Chris?” Peter asked as he was about to walk by. She stopped and looked back. “He went on a date last week.” “Oh? Good for him.” Why was his heart fluttering in his chest? Why did he feel sick hearing that? “Disaster more like.” Charlotte sighed. “Hiring you backfired on me. I didn’t intend he fall for the hired help.” “I’m… more than a -- a…” He didn’t know what to say. “I know. Chris told me the whole story. Don’t blame yourself. You can’t force love where it doesn’t exist. It’s nice to see you care about him, dear.” “Care?” “Why else are you enquiring after him?” “To be polite.” Charlotte cocked her head to one side, which made Peter lower his. He found the pavement suddenly interesting. “Dear, I can’t tell you your place in this world. I can’t tell who to love. I can’t tell you I even understand my brother’s preferences. All I know is our parents had me and spent the next fifteen years trying for another child. My mother miscarried one girl and two boys before Chris came along. It’s why I’m that much -- a bit -- older than him. He was stealing my lipstick from the age of five, and when he no longer cared to do that, he took to ogling my boyfriends as soon as he was old enough to understand what a


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boyfriend meant. He’s gay. He was born that way. And I love him. And I want him to love someone. I want to see him happy. You made him happy. I just want to slap you, even if I’ve no right to feel that way. I want you to love him, but if you don’t even miss him --” “I miss him every day.” Charlotte stopped speaking. “I miss sitting quietly, reading with him. I miss working in the garden with him. I miss talking, and… everything.” Something about Charlotte stopped one from mentioning the “s” word, and he didn’t mean Superman. “I just don’t know if I can switch from thinking of myself as straight to being gay. I miss Christopher, but I just don’t want to be gay.” Charlotte seemed to be trying to outstare him. “Are you going to let a little thing like that dictate the rest of your life? Because, my dear, it sounds like a stupid reason to me.”

*** Christopher was down on his knees in his garden, working with his hands, even though his mood more fitted going to a gym and throwing his fists at a punch bag than getting seedlings to grow. He didn’t know if he believed talking to plants encouraged them, but if they could pick up his mood, then he was wasting his time. If they could sense his state of mind, they’d be lucky to survive the night. When he accidentally crushed a second seedling, he gave it up for a lost cause. He’d try planting them when he felt calmer. They’d survive another night, or two, or three, in the greenhouse. He stood up and put the young plants away, then turned, walking back to the house with dirt trapped under his fingernails and a downcast gaze. He was almost back to the house before he looked up. He stopped, blinking. What was Superman doing standing in his back doorway? Trying to ignore the double entendre in that thought, Chris shoved by into the kitchen. He went to the sink, ran the water until it was hot, adjusted the temperature,


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and then began to scrub away at his hands. The task of getting the dirt out from under his fingernails suddenly felt all-important. “How did you get in here?” he finally asked, when it seemed Peter wasn’t going to speak. “Your sister let me in.” Chris glanced at the apron the man wore. “Did she know you brought that with you?” “No, and it didn’t seem essential to tell her.” The navy apron had the Superman logo on the front. Chris hadn’t looked at Peter from the back, but he was sure he was naked. “I appreciate the thought, but I don’t want one night from you. I don’t think you can give me what I do want.” It tore him apart to say so, but it would hurt more if he spent the night with Peter only to have him say goodbye. Fine, maybe in time the relationship would fail. There were no guarantees. He still wanted the chance. “Why are you here?” “I’ve missed you,” Peter said. “I’m not sure about the rest.” Chris stopped scrubbing his nails just short of grating skin and rested against the sink. “That’s the problem, isn’t it?” At least Peter had the timidity to look chagrined. “All I know is I miss our conversations as much as I do waking up with you.” “Not the sex? I mean, I know it’s not the biggest part of a relationship, but if you’re going to get in bed with another man, it’s all part of the same package, and --” “Will you just shut up a minute? God, they say men don’t talk enough, but you…” Peter was shaking his head. “I’m trying to tell you I’ve missed you, and I can’t just walk away in spite of myself. Part of me doesn’t want this. My life has been complicated and messy enough.” “That sounds like an insult. Sorry. I’ll shut up.” Chris reached for a hand towel to dry his hands. He’d managed to make his fingers feel sore. “I don’t want messy, but that’s the coward in me talking. Most of us have one. We can all reach a level where we’ve had enough. Thing is… When I’m with you, it


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doesn’t feel messy. It feels comfortable, right, and safe. Being brave isn’t about not feeling scared. It’s about facing something anyway, and I guess I’m saying I’m ready to face the simple fact that I want this, with you. At least, I want to see if it goes anywhere. We can’t know. I can’t promise this’ll work out for me or for you. I can’t promise we’ll last even if it does. I can’t promise… not to die on you. I can only promise to see where this goes.” “So get your arse over here,” Christopher said, waiting to see what Peter would do. If the man hesitated, he’d know this wasn’t going to work. The speed with which Peter crossed the room stole Christopher’s breath so that he had to break away from the kiss before he wanted to. He snagged his fingers into Peter’s hair before he did. He held on, making sure Peter wasn’t going to get more than few inches away from him. “Love the apron,” he said, not knowing what else to say. Peter laughed. “I’ll make sure I always wear it to do the housework.” Grinning, Christopher said, “I want more of you. I want us naked, but I can’t bear to let go.” He kissed Peter’s eyelids, kissed and licked the tip of his nose, working his way back to his lips. “As nice as this is, I want the same thing. Bedroom?”

“If we can make it.”

“Hmm… How about your favourite armchair?”

“Well, that would be a first.”

“Really?”

They made it into the living room, Chris managing to ascertain that Peter was

most definitely naked under the apron. “Curtains,” Peter gasped, pulling away long enough to give them privacy from the street. Chris fell into the chair, Peter’s hands as well as his own hastening to get him out of his clothes. Much to his surprise, it seemed Peter couldn’t resist squeezing him with his hand even before he had his jeans down. When it seemed they weren’t getting anywhere, Chris took over working his zip. He pushed his trousers down and then kicked them off, while Peter worked at his top.


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The prospect of sex was doing what it did to most men, but more than that, the feel of Peter’s hands on him, of Peter reaching for him, wanting him… Oh, that was doing things to his heart.

*** Now that he’d made the decision, lust seemed to be riding Peter’s sense of control. He wanted to recapture the feeling of peace that always followed lying beside Christopher after sex, and it didn’t matter whether they curled up in bed, in the chair, or on the floor. Soon, but not soon enough, Chris was sitting there in the chair naked. Peter was on his knees between the other man’s legs, wearing an apron. Oddly, the fact of the apron -- something he had thought he’d never wear again -- made him more uncomfortable than the idea that he’d accepted a change of sexuality or, more accurately, acknowledged he’d always felt drawn to a personality more than caring about a person’s sex. Chris was everything he wanted in a partner. So he had a cock. So what? Peter knew just where to put it. He leaned forward and took it in his mouth. The experience felt strange, but right somehow. He sucked a little before pulling off. Christopher was watching him, one hand playing with his hair. “You look a little shocked.” “I expected to feel uncomfortable doing this.” “Clearly you don’t.” A smile played over Christopher’s lips telling Peter how well he’d just performed. “But as much as I’m enjoying it, I really think we need to talk about trust before you carry on the way you were. Besides, you’ve got such a pretty arse, I want inside it.” Peter’s face grew warm. “It’s not like you’ve not been there before.” “True, but this morning I didn’t believe I’d ever get to be inside it again. Get up here.” Peter moved to do so. “Um, the trust thing?” Reaching down beside the chair, Chris snagged his trousers, took his wallet from a pocket and pulled out what they needed.


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“You carry a condom?” “Only since you turned up on my doorstep.” Chris shrugged. “Just in case we found ourselves in a situation like this.” “Where we couldn’t wait?” “Hmmm.” Chris was distracted, fumbling around, dragging Peter up to straddle him, and covering himself as he did. He used spit as lube. “This seat is ridiculously wide,” Peter muttered, trying not to concentrate on the one finger then two stretching him, because if he did, he rather feared he might not last. Then he felt something larger and insistent and ahhhhhh yessssss between them; they worked together until he was sitting all the way down, his head thrown back, his eyes staring blindly at the ceiling. It wasn’t pretty. It was rougher than usual. It was Peter trying to lower himself, and Christopher pushing up so the rhythm faltered, and yet even that felt right too. Balls mashed together and rubbed as they moved apart. Peter reached for his cock more than once, only to have Chris grab his hands to stop him, so he pointed tight and erect directly at the man he loved. He couldn’t mention love yet, but that was all right. Chris hadn’t mentioned it to him. That time would come. He felt sure of it now; just as he felt certain he needed this. “Please, Chris.” Damn, if Peter wasn’t begging again. He couldn’t refuse. Grabbing for Peter’s cock, Chris took more control of their tempo, stroking his boyfriend’s length, adding a little twisting, turning motion, using Peter’s own moisture to lubricate the movement. “I’m g-” Peter didn’t manage to say anything more and didn’t have to. Christopher was right there with him. Sensation washed through him even as Peter spilled out to cover his hand. It was too quick, but that was fine. As soon as they recovered enough, he’d take Peter up to their bedroom.

*** Peter opened his eyes to darkness. He felt calm. He hadn’t even managed to generate a smidge of anxiety when Chris had remarked that they’d have to talk living


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arrangements. Dissecting the thought now, he still couldn’t. He understood how Chris felt. He didn’t want to sleep apart either. “You awake?” Chris mumbled. “Hmm. How did you know?” “I can practically hear you thinking.” “Chris? About the living arrangements?” “Yes?” There was only slight concern in his lover’s voice, but he heard it. “I think I’d like to rent my house and move in here. If that’s okay with you?” There was no hesitation in Christopher’s simple, “Yes.”

Sharon Maria Bidwell Sharon was born in London on New Year’s Eve. When not tap-dancing her way round an office, she followed many creative pursuits. Eventually her love of books, and a wild imagination compelled her to focus on writing. The first short story she submitted was described as having “both a Sci-fi and horror element,” and being “strong on characterization, and quite literary in terms of style.” With a repertoire of twisted tales and a love of cross-genre writing, it’s therefore small wonder that it surprised everyone (including herself) when she branched out into erotic romance. These works have been critically acclaimed and often described as “deeply passionate.” Sharon’s worlds are vivid, unexpected, and sometimes intensely magical. Visit this diverse writer’s site at: http://www.sharonbidwell.co.uk

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