Blowing It (11 page)

Smiling, Magnus took it and expertly rolled it onto
my dick. “Do you care?”

I looked mournfully at my penis. “I look like a
banana.”

Magnus licked the head. “Mmm, taste like one, too.”

I pulled a face, but he effectively shut up my
bitching by gripping the base and suckling the tip. “God, you’ve got a talented
mouth.”

Magnus liked praise, and I kept up a stream of
encouragement as he took me deeper, the absurd yellow contrasting prettily with
the pink of his plump lips. I rarely came from blowjobs alone, no matter how
much I enjoyed the sensation, although it had become Magnus’s personal mission
to be the exception. With the condom, however, the remote possibility faded to practically
nothing. Fortunately, I’m not the type who sees sex as a mad sprint to the
finish line. I like drawing it out, and removing the urgent need to come made
the blowjob more pleasurable, not less. Two years with only my right hand for
company had sharpened my appreciation for edging.

Which wasn’t to say Magnus didn’t know what he was
doing. Between his soft lips and scratchy beard, he was driving me insane. By
the time I grabbed his hair and hauled him into a kiss, we were both panting
for breath.

I clasped his face and kissed his eyelids, nuzzled
his cheek, pressed my lips to the small dimple at the corner of his mouth. He
climbed over me, kneeling on the couch between my thighs, and I wrapped my legs
around his waist. I loved how big he was, all that bulk and strength. It should
have made me feel nervous, that he could overpower me in a second if he wanted
to, but it didn’t. It thrilled me.

His dick slid against mine, and I felt the hairs on
his belly flatten between us as he pressed closer. He wasn’t sucking his
stomach in now, and I released his face to run my hands over his broad chest
and flanks, digging my fingers into his flesh and delighting in how soft he
was. Pliant. I could grab great handfuls at his hips and hold him against me. Whoever
had first called them love handles was a genius. Not that Magnus was fat. He
looked exactly what he was: an ex-rugby player who’d retained the bulk but
whose muscles had softened over the years with disuse. He was delicious.

I flexed my wrists, encouraging him to move his
hips. His dick dragged along the length of mine, and we both groaned. He
tangled his hands in my hair, clasping the back of my neck, and when he kissed
me, he tasted of synthetic banana. I snickered, then quickly explained why I
was laughing when he gave me a wounded, questioning look.

Deliberately, he took hold of my dick and rolled
the condom off. It had been only the thinnest of barriers, but the difference
was electric. I shuddered as he jacked my length, staring him in the eye as he thrust
his hips, sliding our cocks together. God, I could get off from that, the two
of us dry humping against each other. The friction was perfect, the roughness
of his pubes contrasting with his satiny foreskin and the slightly chalky
residue from the condom. He had big hands, mostly soft, although there were some
calluses which would never entirely fade. When he teased the underside of my
cockhead with his thumb, I released a choked sound.

It was on the tip of my tongue to beg him to fuck
me, but before I could get the words out, he was kissing me again, harder and
deeper, my head cradled in the crook of his arm, his big body covering me until
I couldn’t see anything but him, couldn’t feel anything but his hand on my
dick, the way he thrust his cock into the crease of my groin, finding enough
friction between my leg and abdomen to get himself off, if his increasingly
frantic breaths were anything to go by.

For a big man, he came surprisingly quietly, just a
soft gasp and then wet heat against my leg, his thighs trembling under my
hands. I brought myself to climax a moment later, my spunk mingling with his on
my belly, cooling rapidly and leaving goose bumps in its wake as it slid across
my skin.

Magnus scooped me up in his arms, buried his face
in the crook of my neck, and held me, snuffling hot breaths against my ear. I
wrapped my arms around his neck and cradled his head, squeezing his waist with
my thighs like a baby monkey clinging to its mother. His beard tickled the skin
of my clavicle, and I squirmed in his arms, caught somewhere between trying to
get away and wanting more. I loved the contrast between our bodies, how safe I
felt in his arms, how gentle he was in the moments after orgasm.

I stifled a yawn against his hairy chest, which
shook as he chuckled.

“Sorry.” I smiled bashfully. “I’m such a cliché.”

“We should have pulled the bed out first,” he said.
“I’m going to have to make you move.”

I growled softly.

Magnus laughed and planted a kiss on my temple. “It’s
not my fault you’re irresistible.”

“It’s the underwear, isn’t it?”

A broad smile split his handsome face. “It could
well be.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

On Sunday, I met Ryan and Sameer for lunch at a
little bistro Ryan and I had found during our first year as roommates. The food
was that rare combination, cheap
and
delicious, the atmosphere friendly,
and not so busy we ever felt crowded or couldn’t hear ourselves think. They
were already at a table when I entered, two steaming mugs before them. They
rose to meet me, and after greeting each other with hugs and kisses, I ordered
a cup of coffee and took a seat.

“You look well,” Ryan said, examining me with a
critical eye.

I sipped my coffee demurely. “I’ve had a good
weekend.”

“You got laid!”

I smiled. “Maybe once or twice.”

“It’s about time.” Sameer grinned broadly. “We were
beginning to think you’d taken a vow.”

I almost spat my coffee across the table.

“Seriously, things are good?” Ryan asked. “Mr.
Wonderful is still wonderful?”

“He is.” I ducked my head to hide the dumb
expression on my face. It didn’t work.

“You’re mooning,” Ryan stated with something like
awe in his voice. “I haven’t seen you go all googly-eyed over someone in
forever.”

“I am
not
!” I protested. “Besides, it’s
early days. I’m not jinxing it.”

“How long has it been?”

“Not even two months yet.”

Sameer nodded sagely. “The honeymoon stage. I
remember that.” He gave a wistful sigh.

“Hey!” Ryan elbowed him. “We’re not past it yet.”

“If you say so, dear.”

I snickered into my coffee as they squabbled. They
treated bickering like foreplay, and it was always entertaining to watch.
Picking up the menu, I changed the subject. “Ooh, today’s special is quiche
Lorraine.”

Ryan shook his head. “Sameer can’t have that.
Bacon.”

I gave Sameer a pitying look. “You don’t know what
you’re missing.”

He didn’t look too distraught, but he’d never tried
it. If he had, his reaction would have been different, I was sure.

The waitress took our orders—two specials, and a
Spanish omelette for Sameer—then the interrogation resumed.

“I want all the juicy details,” Ryan demanded,
leaning across the table and staring too avidly for my liking.

“There aren’t any,” I protested. “Not really.”

“I think he’s a kinky fucker,” he said in a
conspiratorial whisper. “We’ve spoken about it.” He nudged Sameer, who had the
grace to look abashed.

“Have you, now?”

“Mmhm. We think he’s got a drawer of leather
harnesses and dildos the size of his arm. It’s only a matter of time before he
ties you up—”

“Oh my god, stop!” I held up my hands for mercy,
casting glances around to see who at the nearby tables might have overheard. The
group of women next to us were too busy cooing nonsense to a small baby, but
behind Ryan a couple of teenagers had grown very still. I’d recognise the
immobile posture of an eavesdropper anywhere. “There’s nothing kinky going
on—nor will there be.” I cut off Ryan’s interruption before he’d done more than
open his mouth. “We have very boring, plain vanilla sex, if you must know, and
we’re both more than satisfied. It wasn’t
me
who turned his bedroom into
a sex dungeon.” I gave him a meaningful glare.

“You exaggerate,” Ryan said. “I’m just saying, a
few toys never hurt anyone.”

“I’m not saying they do,” I said, feeling horribly
prim. “But right now, we’re having fun without them.”

“So you
haven’t
shown him what you keep
under your bed?”

“Piss off.” I wadded up a paper napkin and threw it
at him. “The next time I move house, you can stay at home.”

Ryan high-fived Sameer.

Grudgingly, I smiled, shaking my head. Ryan made my
meagre toy collection sound so…
depraved
. What single guy in his
twenties didn’t own a couple of strokers and a cock ring or two? And okay,
maybe one dildo, but it was only small, and besides, I barely used it. Two years
is a long time to be single, and there’s only so much fun a man can have with
just his right hand for company. So I’d bought some stuff, experimented a
little. That was nothing to what Ryan had got up to in his time—probably still
did, although I didn’t want to know the details. He was my best friend; I didn’t
want to think of him tied up and clamped and flogged, no matter how much he
might enjoy it.

Oh god, mental images
. I bit my lip and forced
myself to think of something else.

“How’s work?” I asked Sameer, knowing that opener
was guaranteed to change the subject.

“Oh no, you don’t,” Ryan said swiftly. “Sameer, don’t
let him distract you.”

“Maybe Owen wants to be distracted,” Sameer said.

“Whose side are you on?”

I laughed. “Okay, I don’t want to cause a domestic.
It’s just new, y’know? With Magnus. I want to keep it to myself a little bit
longer.”

Ryan gave me a gentle smile. “Okay. As long as we
get the gossip eventually.”

“I’m not sure there is any, but fine. If that’s
what it takes to shut you up.”

Ryan looked wounded. “And here was me thinking I
was being supportive.”

“You’ve been quite supportive enough. Seriously. I
still can’t believe you tracked him down and invited him to dinner behind my
back.”

“Well, you were being an idiot.”

“I know.” I nodded. “I underestimated him.”

“You mean he doesn’t want to date you for the
fifteen minutes of fame?” Ryan feigned shock. “But… that must mean he actually
likes
you.”

“Alright, alright, stop trowelling it on,” I
groused. “I was never worried he was dating me because of who I am, if you must
know.”

“So what were you worried about?” he asked,
softening his tone.

I was prevented from answering by the appearance of
a waitress bearing our lunch. The generous slices of warm quiche were served
with assorted little salads—rocket in balsamic, coleslaw, a coronation-spiced
potato salad, and long grain rice with plump sultanas in a light vinaigrette. The
omelette was served plain, but made a more than sizable meal on its own. Making
appreciative noises, we unwrapped our cutlery and dug in.

“I’m still waiting,” Ryan said once the food was
half-gone.

I took my time swallowing a mouthful of quiche. “I
think I’m asking too much of him,” I said when the weight of their scrutiny
became too much to bear.

“Why? Because you can’t be seen in public with him?
Owen, I don’t think he cares.”

“It’s not that.” I shook my head. “He can’t tell
anyone
about me. Could you do that? Would you ask it of someone you were seeing? I met
his brother on Friday, and—”

“He introduced you to his
family
?”

“It wasn’t like that,” I said quickly, and
explained the circumstances. “I hate that he had to tell them to keep it a
secret,” I concluded. “It isn’t fair. I mean, he’s met all of you, and I’ve
never heard a word about his friends. I want to get to know him, be part of his
life, but how can I do that if he can’t tell them about me? And can you imagine
what they make of it?”

“How do you mean?” Ryan asked, frowning.

“Imagine if I told you I was seeing someone, but I
couldn’t tell you anything about him and you couldn’t meet him, either. What
would you think?”

Ryan grinned. “I’d think you’d found yourself a Mr.
Big.”

I rolled my eyes. “This isn’t
Sex and the City
.
It’s real life. In real life, friends don’t appreciate mystery boyfriends.”

“So you’re worried what his friends think of you?
People you’ve never even met?”

“I’m worried because I’m making him lie to them,” I
corrected. “I’d hate it if it was someone you were seeing, and don’t pretend
you’d be happy if I was Magnus’s dirty little secret.”

“It isn’t like that, though,” Ryan protested. “If
you told me you were seeing somebody famous, I’d understand.”

“Maybe at first, but how long would it be before
you told me to ditch the closet case?”

“You’re not a closet case, Owen.”

“What else can you call it?” I asked, spreading my
hands. “I’m not exactly out and proud.”

“That’s not your choice,” Ryan said. “Magnus
understands.”

“For how long?” I asked bitterly.

“Owen, he told his family about you. That’s huge! He
wouldn’t have done that if he wasn’t keen. He’d have kept you away, not let you
meet them. He wants this as much as you do, and he’s not stupid. He knows you
have to keep it quiet.”

“It just doesn’t seem fair.”

“It isn’t,” he said, his lip twisting with
sympathy. “But it can’t last forever, can it? What’s the worst that can happen?”

“Oh, let me think.” Sarcasm made my tone ugly, but
I couldn’t stop myself. “Hollywood can release the option on the book. Squire
can cancel my contract. Oh, and Cardwell can sue me for breaching the image
clause. I’ll lose everything I’ve earned and more besides, have to sell the
flat, and end up on the streets.” I adopted my best Mockney accent. “Spare any
change, guv’nor?”

Ryan made an exasperated sound. “Don’t be melodramatic.”

“Melodrama is what I do best,” I said petulantly.

“Do you want to break up with him, is that it?”

“No!” I huffed a frustrated sound. “God, no. But I
don’t want to force him to break up with
me
, either.”

“I think you’re getting ahead of yourself,” Sameer
said. “Your publisher can’t cancel the contract without paying penalty clauses,
and your agency isn’t going to drag its name through the mud by suing an author
for being gay. So the worst that happens is they want out of this deal, and the
way the first book has sold, there’s plenty of other publishers will snap up
the rest of the series.”

“Maybe,” I grudgingly admitted. “But it hasn’t sold
that well, you know. It’s done okay here, but they still can’t get it to take
off in America, and it’s only been optioned by a production company. There’s no
sign they’re actually thinking of developing a script.”

Ryan shrugged. “So it’s free money.”

“Or maybe they’re optioning it to stop someone else
from getting there first,” I pointed out. “Who knows if they’ve got a similar
project in the pipeline and the option is precisely to prevent the film from
being made?”

“God, you’re depressing today,” Ryan grumbled.

“Sorry.” I speared the quiche crust with my fork.
“I just hate this shit. All I wanted to do was write. I never thought there’d
be so much politics.”

Sameer grinned. “You should work in the City.
Computers, I understand. The people, I could do without.”

Ryan palmed the back of Sameer’s neck, his touch
gentling from a hearty gesture to something caressing as Sameer leant into his
hand.

“Okay, you win,” I said, smiling at him. “I’d
rather have my job any day.”

“Just don’t do anything you’ll live to regret,”
Ryan said seriously.

I swilled the dregs of my coffee around the cup, focusing
on the accumulated grit of sugar and grounds.

“Owen?”

“Okay, okay. No stupidity. I promise.”

“Good.” Ryan touched my hand, stilling me. “It’s
about time you had a decent man in your life. I’m not going to let you fuck
this up.”

҉҉҉

As touched as I was by Ryan’s faith in his ability
to manage my love life, it wasn’t Ryan I was answering to over the following
weeks. Squire announced the release date for the second novel, and while it was
still some six months away, the publicity mill got to work immediately. The
time I should have been spending with my editor, I spent instead in a string of
hotel rooms and restaurants, talking to various reporters from both sides of
the Atlantic. At least they were holding off the TV appearances until near the
date, although Katy had mentioned something about a documentary being in the
works, the mere threat of which had me looking over my shoulder at every turn.
The last thing I wanted was a film crew recording my every move.

Before I’d started down the YA path, I’d naively
thought children’s authors didn’t need to do as many interviews as their
literary fiction counterparts. What do kids care for the
Times Literary
Supplement
or the
Daily Mail
’s Sunday magazine? But it isn’t the
kids buying the books, as Max was quick to remind me. The brightly-illustrated
covers were all that was needed to draw them in, but the parents wanted
familiarity, they wanted to believe they were giving their offspring the very
best, the most desirable, the next big thing. Pre-teens don’t start the buzz,
they respond to it.

For the most part, the interviews were dull. The
same questions about the series arc, the same coy hints given at predicable
intervals, the same scripted back story about my years waiting tables and writing
long into the night. I wasn’t selling my series, I was selling myself.

The reporters sent to interview me were uniformly
young and inexperienced. The articles would be fluff, a bit of filler somewhere
near the back of whatever magazine or supplement they were scheduled to appear
in. I wasn’t famous enough to warrant more than half a page somewhere, a single
line on the cover, maybe a stock promotional photo illustrating the piece. I
didn’t deserve the attentions of more than the office junior. Most of them were
probably interns, working for pennies or less and as bored as me by the
process. They asked their questions, and I recited my answers, two players
reading a tried and tested script. I felt like a reality TV contestant; I could
almost hear the swell of violins as I gave them the against-the-odds history of
my publishing success.

Then there were the ambitious ones. Those who
wanted to work their way up the ranks, and didn’t mind throwing an author under
the bus to do so. The veiled references to my social media presence, and
gender-neutral questions about a supportive partner I might or might not have,
weren’t lost on Max or Katy. I stuck rigidly to my script, giving bland,
nondescript answers. “My friends and family are very supportive. No, I don’t have
a girlfriend.” Technically, I wasn’t lying.