Page 65 of Flare

“That’s becauseeveryonewas a hundred years old. I’m still recovering. What the fuck is up with some of those lyrics anyway? Those guys were seriously disturbed.”

“Language.” But I couldn’t help laughing.

He circled a finger in the air but flashed me a smile.

I pressed a kiss to the back of Rhys’s hand and then threaded our fingers together, aware of Jack’s eyes on us the whole time. But Rafe’s words played in my ears—be the parent that’s already inside you. And that parent was a big fan of appropriate PDAs. Plus, I’d taken my cue from Rhys, still shocked and a little sappy about how open he’d been about us during the day. None of my previous dates or boyfriends had ever felt particularly comfortable being touched in public, but not Rhys.

At mini golf, he’d reached for my hand like it was the most natural thing in the world; hung around my neck, laughing, when I’d jumped my ball over the concrete lip of the ninth hole for the third time; and even snaked his arm around my waist from behind to kiss me between my shoulder blades and put me off my shot. It worked.

I’d spent the day playing catch-up, leaving everything to him to instigate—a mistake which left me open to each and every sneak attack. It was fun and heady and so completely different from anything I’d ever had with another guy that I even felt a bit giddy. Lots of guys expected me to take the lead because of my size, but with Rhys,Iwas the one reacting, and I liked it. I liked it a lot.

But it did make keeping my hands off him extra hard, and before we headed for ice creams, I’d risked tugging him toward me by his belt loop, making sure I was the one with my back against the car.

He’d tensed just a little, but then slid close and relaxed into the kiss, letting me take point for the first time since that disastrous night, and I’d gotten in the car feeling fucking euphoric. It must’ve shown on my face because Rhys took one look and burst out laughing, then held my hand all the way to the ice cream shop. And yeah, it might’ve been a strange choice for a first date, but I really wanted a chilled beginning to this new and fragile thing we were growing. And apparently, it worked. At least judging by the wide, happy smile Rhys had worn for most of the afternoon.

When dinner was cleared, Jack legged it upstairs to work on a project for school and text his ‘harem’—his words not mine. As soon as he was gone, Rhys led me into the lounge and pushed me flat on the couch, straddling my body for an unhurried make-out session where he got to know my neck and various other parts of my anatomy above the belt in a fair amount of detail.

Suffice to say, by the time I waved him goodbye outside Flare an hour later, after a second prolonged session of wandering hands in the car, I needed a lengthy shower and half a bottle of lube before I could even contemplate getting any sleep.

And that was before I remembered the list that waited in my jacket pocket.

* * *

Ah, the list.

Aka the Rhys Hellier method of enhanced interrogation.

By Wednesday I’d spent an inordinate, one might even say excessive amount of time combing through Rhys’s comprehensive list of dos and don’ts, fixating on a number of items he’d flagged in hisfree-passcategory. But also there was a lot to be said for hisurgently requires researchcategory due to insufficient information. Other categories included:not first up but has potential,follow my lead,never tried so buyer beware, and the ominous—not unless you want a knee to your balls.

I paid particular attention to the last one, which, as Rhys had warned, was mostly about restraint, overpowering, manhandling, and so forth. I figured I could work around everything in there with relative ease, although the idea I might fuck up in the heat of the moment had me somewhat panicky, and I decided a bit of research on male sexual assault was called for. I worked in a goddamned university for fuck’s sake.

But back to the list and thefree-passcategory—Rhys wanting me on my knees to suck his cock was a personal favourite and currently giving me sleepless nights. He couldn’t give head, but receiving it was something he apparently managed without too much difficulty. He’d even written an asterisked note alongside to say that he’d not been triggered in hisrecent visualisations.

Yes. Visualisations.

There’d been so fucking much to unpack in that one word, I had to empty my balls in the shower before texting Rhys that he owed me a thorough explanation of said visualisations in return for putting my sperm count into negative figures, my sac resembling a deflated balloon.

He texted back, demanding evidence of same before admitting any culpability. This earned him a tragic photo of a hollowed-out and slightly collapsed kiwifruit and an attached tag that said the bristly hair was unfortunately a fair representation. Better he knew the score early. Wax and I were sworn enemies.

He replied that was good news as he appreciated a bit of texture in his ‘fruit’—cheeky fucker—and he attached a photo of his hand wrapped around a piece of rope and a bright blue glass dildo, saying the smoothness was also a fair representation.

Once I peeled my tongue from the roof of my mouth, I replied with a photo of my shower and an uncapped tube of lube and told him I’d be forwarding my water bill to him.

He returned several lines of laughing emojis and an entire one of eggplants and tongues. And in a complete brain explosion, I fired back a deliberately blurry pic of me side-on under a cascade of steaming water, and then mentally slapped myself for being such an idiot and tried to delete it. Obvious fail on the deleting part, although I totally aced the whole dropping my phone in the shower part and having to scramble to save it.

But for all that our exchange had been sexy as fuck, I knew from experience that Rhys flirting about sex meant nothing in relation to his wounds. And the little bit of research I’d managed had been super clear on that point.

The fallout from male sexual assault was so fucking complicated, and rainbow men had their own issues, not least a higher rate of assault than their straight counterparts. And when that assault came from within their own community, it added another layer to all those existing issues to do with shame, trust, and fitting in, making it even harder to ask for help. The consequences were myriad: anything from hyper-sexualisation to complete withdrawal, PTSD, and everything in between.

It was a timely reminder that just because Rhys was comfortable with some stuff, it meant nothing, and I needed to pay attention. Rhys liked sex. He’d been clear about that. He fucked men and got off, just like I did. But for him, it was a much more rigidly controlled experience, and he’d already had one relationship fail because his partner was a jerk.

Still, the light-hearted banter was a bright spot, and the sexiest fucking evening I’d had in a long time with my clothes on, and we hadn’t even touched.

So yeah, this reserved—some would say boring—and fast-approaching middle-age man of not unreasonable intellectual capacity and who’d undoubtedly be voted by his students as least likely to have a crimp, let alone a kink, was sexting, sending naked pics, and getting turned on by glass dildos, for fuck’s sake.

When had this become my life?

Dull English professor meets hot young designer and promptly loses his fucking mind.

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