Page 25 of Glitterland
“But don’t you like it really,” he persisted, “writing summin to make people ’appy?”
“I don’t really care.”
“Aww, babes. That’s sad.”
“For fuck’s sake,” I said wearily, “stop saying everything is sad. It isn’t sad. It’s just…the way it is. It’s my job, not a divine mandate. It’s not as though…”
I’d been about to say something…something…about human naïvety…and the fact we had no fundamental right to happiness…or something…but his hand moved over my thigh, fingers brushing my cock through my trousers, and my breath hitched and my thoughts scattered, and I did not mourn them. He pushed me back onto the kitchen floor, crawling over me like some mountain cat stalking its prey. Well, he was the same colour as one.
“You don’t like nuffin abaht it?” He spread his knees on either side of me. “Nuffin at all?”
My hips bucked. “I just don’t see the point of talking about it.”
“I’m just interested or whateva. It’s called ’aving a conversation.”
He caressed my face, light as nothing, sending a strange pleasure, part anticipation, part frustration, rippling over my skin. I felt like a lake, and his hands were the moon.
“For fuck’s sake,” I growled, “touch me properly.”
“But seriously.” Words I was coming to dread. “You don’t like nuffin?”
“Do we have to do this now? You realise this is blackmail, Essex.”
“Darian.”
“Still blackmail.”
He grinned, reached for my cock again, and tightened his hand until my back arched. “Yeah.”
I drew in a ragged breath. “If I tell you, will you stop asking questions and…and…”
“And what? I like it when you say fings, cos it sounds posh and filthy at the same time.”
“Make me come.”
“’Ow?”
“With your hand. On my cock.”
His own gave an appreciative sort of jump. He smiled. “Yeah. Reckon you could read the phone book and make it dirty.”
I ran my hands up the inside of his splayed, denim-coated thighs, wishing it was skin beneath my palms. “This is the news at ten,” I whispered. “Politicians are predicting hard times ahead.”
It was a pathetic attempt at humour, but he threw back his head and laughed. I stared at the strong, clean line of this throat. “Ahwight, then,” he said, fingers curling over the head of my cock while I squirmed.
“All right, all right,” I said. “I like…I like that I can make it neat, okay?”
He rewarded me with a long, languorous stroke. “What’s that mean?”
I closed my eyes, trying to pretend I lived in a universe that contained only my cock and his hand. And lazy pleasure that spilled eternally in silver spirals. “Well, there’s always…an answer. Everything always makes sense. And can be…can be fixed.”
“Oh, yeah,” he said. “I ’adn’t fought of that. It’s well deep.”
“That’s all detective fiction is,” I said, while his hand moved in a sweet, tormenting rhythm and I twisted to meet it. “A control fantasy in a world where everything is meaningless.”
“Lots of fings ’ave meaning, babes. And, sometimes, when you fink maybe they doesn’t, it’s just cos you aren’t looking for the same sorta meaning.”
“God help me, I’m being wanked off by Yoda.”
