Page 41 of Glitterland
“No, it ain’t.” He paused. “It’s next to my arse.”
“Not the point.”
“Can’t believing we’re ’avin’ this convo wif me sitting ’ere wif my bits hanging out. I just fink, sometimes it’s nice to ’ave stuff outside insteada inside.”
“I’m a lifetime subscriber to the private repression programme.”
“I just fink you’re jell.”
“Jesus wept, I’m not jealous.”
He ignored me and, to my surprise, wrapped a hand round his cock again. I rather thought I’d killed the mood with my ridiculous questions, but apparently stupidity was one of his turn-ons.
“Like it when you look at me like that.”
I didn’t know how I was looking at him, only that I was and I couldn’t look away. His hand moved harder and faster, in time with his quickening breath, drawing my attention back to his cock. My own gave an unhappy, neglected throb. God, I wanted to touch him. His mouth curved into a mischievous smile, his eyes a deep, lust-hazy blue. “I fink you’re like protesting too much.” He stroked the fingers of his spare hand over the pristine skin of his other hip. “You wanna see ‘Ash’ written ’ere? Or, y’know, ‘A.A. Winters,’ cos you’re all proper.”
“Just shut up and wank.” The unsteadiness of my voice betrayed me. He’d only been teasing, but, in some twisted way, it was absolutely true. I would have written myself into his skin if only I could, like a prisoner marking the walls of his cell, just to prove I was still alive and that I did not drift, untouching and untouched, through a universe of empty spaces and fading stars.
“Y’know,” he said, a few seconds later, “don’t you fink it’s sort of like a waste?”
“Hmm?”
“Like…y’know…this.” He briefly indicated his cock. “Wouldn’t you rather…?”
“Fuck?”
“Yeah.”
Yes.“No.”
“I fink,” he said, after another moment, “maybe you do.”
There was a heavy scent of arousal in the air, skin and sweat, with a sticky chemical undertone of hair product and cologne.
“Is that so?”
“Yeah.” Another pause. “What would ’appen if I like…tried summin?”
I swallowed, staring at the movement of his hand as though mesmerised by the gliding skin. “I would protest most vociferously,” I said quietly. “And accuse you of reneging on our deal.”
He stopped. And pushed me down onto the carpet, pinning me beneath his naked body, his hands briefly forming sweet, warm shackles about my upper arms. I could feel his heart thudding against my back and I made a tormented, needy noise, utterly self-betrayed. I wished I could be naked with him, but it was too complicated, too revealing. I’d settle for this.
“What’s reneging?” he whispered.
“Ch-cheating.”
I twisted, pushing my hips up to meet him, burying my face in my forearms, the sleeves of my jacket cold, synthetic and wrong against my skin.
“This you protesting?” he asked, running a hand over my arse and down the slope of my back while I trembled.
“Yes, oh God, Darian.”
“Just like checking…it ain’t really, right?”
I turned my head and snarled at him, “Fucking fuck me, for fuck’s sake.”
“For a posho,” he said, scrabbling with the buttons on my trousers and yanking them down, “you ’aven’t got no class.”
