Pressure Head (24 page)

“I was enjoying that,” I protested.

“So was I. Too bloody much.” He knelt just out of reach for a moment, breathing heavily, then swung his leg away. “Time you got some clothes off, Paretski.”

I sat up and took my shirt off a bit more slowly than I needed to. I was trying to think how to do this.

I didn’t want Phil to freak out when he saw my scars.

They’re not terrible—I’m not the bloody Elephant Man—but it’s obvious I’ve had surgery. I could pretend I was shy; ask him to turn the light off, or get under the duvet, but wouldn’t that just make it more obvious? In the end, I thought,
sod it
. “Don’t freak out when you see the scars,” I said, pushing off my jeans and underwear all in one go.

Phil drew in a sharp breath, staring down at me. He could have been looking at my hip or my cock, but I had a sinking feeling I knew which it was. He was back to stone-face, and he didn’t make a move to touch me, either.

Sod it. “Hey, I’ve got an ache right here that needs some attention,” I said, stroking my cock as a visual aid. “If you like, you could kiss it better,” I encouraged him.

Phil’s gaze lifted to meet my eyes. I dared him silently to say something about the scars, about the accident. To apologise.

He didn’t, and I breathed again as he dipped his head to kiss his way down my chest, all the way down to take me in his mouth. The intensity of it made my head spin—Phil Morrison, with his lips wrapped around my cock, and God, he knew a trick or two with his tongue. My eyes kept trying to clench shut, but I was bloody determined to keep them open, to drink in the most beautiful sight I’d seen in a long time.

Phil’s fingers ghosted across my balls, but they didn’t linger, heading to that bit just behind them. An American bloke I went out with for a while used to call it the
taint
, but I never did find out why. For some reason, I’d kept getting distracted every time the subject came up. Whatever it was called, it was a gateway to heaven. Phil teased it gently, rubbing back and forth, getting closer and closer to my entrance all the time, until—fuck—he slipped a finger inside me.

He took his mouth off my cock so he could speak. “Like that?”

“Fuck, yeah.” I gasped involuntarily as he pushed in deeper. He sucked me some more, probing ever deeper with his finger until I was bucking and cursing, then he pulled off and shifted position. I didn’t resist as he rolled me on my side and spooned up behind me, his cock jabbing between my thighs, hitting my balls. “You can fuck me, if you want,” I said, hoping he wouldn’t take the shake in my voice for reluctance. “There’s stuff in the drawer.” He was silent so long I started to worry. “Phil?”

“Yeah. Fuck, I want that.” His words went right to my cock. I leaned over to scrabble in the drawer, and tossed him a condom and a packet of lube.

“Just bear in mind it’s been a while, okay?” I warned him.

“I’ll take care of you,” he rumbled. He caressed my arse cheek for a moment, then slithered down the bed. Oh God. Was he going to do what I thought he was going to do?

He was. His grip on my arse so hard I knew I’d have bruises in the morning, he spread my cheeks wide and dived in with his tongue. How did he know? How the fuck did he know what this did to me? So fucking intimate. I was shaking so hard he must have barely been able to hold me, as that teasing, wet warmth bathed my crack and circled my entrance, then jabbed inside. Again and again he tormented me, until I was so bloody desperate I’d have given anything,
anything
if he’d only get inside me now. I struggled to form the words to tell him. “Need you in me,” I begged. “Want you now.”

The wait while he rolled on the condom and slicked himself up was agony. I felt a moment’s fear as the huge, blunt tip of him pressed against me, and then the burn as he forced his way inside. “Oh, fuck!” I gasped. “Don’t stop.”

He didn’t. He kept pushing, slowly but unstoppably. Stretching me out and filling me. It hurt, yeah, but somehow it was right that it hurt, the physical pain driving away all the mental hurts of all those years ago. Like the operations I’d had when I was seventeen, and the rehab afterwards, where I knew all the pain was doing me good. And then it stopped hurting, and I could feel his balls against my arse, his bruising fingers on my hips, and it was fucking wonderful.

Then he started to move. Slowly at first, then speeding up, he pulled out of me and slammed back in, changing the angle until I cried out, and then hitting that spot again and again. “Christ, Tom,” he groaned. “Touch yourself—I can’t…”

I barely had to lay one shaking hand on my cock before I was coming, a blinding white flash of pleasure searing through my whole body and leaving me limp and trembling. Phil let out a huge, wordless groan that rumbled through my chest and I knew he was coming inside me, shooting out his own ecstasy. His harsh breaths rasped in my ear, and he let go my hips and wrapped his arms around me, pulling me to his chest. “So fucking beautiful,” he whispered. I melted back against him, moulding to his body.

I didn’t realise we’d fallen asleep like that until I woke, hours later, my back warm but my front half bloody freezing. Seeing as that was the half with the important bits, I roused myself to try and work the duvet out from underneath Phil’s gently snoring body. Thankfully he woke up just enough to give me a hand, as his solid, muscular bulk seemed to have tripled in weight since I’d had him lying on top of me last night.

We’d made a right mess of the sheets—they were definitely feeling a bit crusty—but that could wait until morning. I pulled the duvet up over us both and surrendered to oblivion once more.

Chapter Eighteen

I woke up, the way I often do, just a couple of minutes before my alarm was due to go off. Right. Early drain. I turned the alarm off quickly, not wanting it to ring and wake Phil up. He was lying on his back, his mouth slightly open, breathing softly. I had it on good authority that if I tried that, I snored like a foghorn. His face was softer in sleep, more vulnerable, the blond hair mussed up and boyish. I briefly wondered about waking him up with a kiss or possibly a morning blowjob, then regretfully decided we probably weren’t at that stage yet.

Yet. That was implying things were going to carry on from here. We hadn’t done a whole lot of discussing things last night—maybe Phil didn’t want to carry things on? Maybe last night had been his way of getting me out of his system? My chest felt uncomfortably tight at the thought as I swung my legs out of bed and got up. My bum was aching a bit. I’d be thinking of Phil all day whether I wanted to or not.

Coffee. That’d make me feel better.

When I got downstairs, Merlin greeted me like I’d been gone for a week, winding in and out of my bare legs like I was a kitty slalom course. Arthur just yawned at me from his perch on top of the fridge, the big lump. I got the kettle on and filled up the cafetière; then I took pity on poor, skinny Merlin and filled up his food bowl. That finally got Arthur’s attention, so I fed him as well.

“Bloody hell, aren’t you frozen?”

I straightened to find Phil standing in the doorway, fully dressed, which made me feel twice as naked, if that’s possible. “You could come and warm me up,” I suggested.

He gave me a speculative look, then, just as I’d convinced myself he was going to make his excuses and leave, possibly forever, he moved. Four silent steps, and his arms slid around my waist, pulling me close. I hadn’t realised I was cold until I felt the warmth of him against my skin. I breathed out into his cashmere sweater, the soft fibres tickling my nose. When did the smell of him get so bloody familiar? His hands dropped to my arse, kneading it gently.

I took that as an encouraging sign he probably wasn’t finished with it yet, and pushed him away gently. “I’m going to have to cut and run,” I said. “Customer’s expecting me. Just got time for a bit of breakfast.”

He smiled. “God forbid you go without your food. All right, what’s on the menu?”

“Toast,” I said. “But I’ve got some bacon and eggs in the fridge if you want to cook yourself something and let yourself out after.”

“Toast’s fine,” he said, running his hands up and down my hips. Then he stepped back, away from me. “Suppose I’d better let you get on with it.”

I made toast and marmalade, and we ate leaning against the kitchen counters. I still felt naked, but it looked like Phil appreciated the view. Scars and all. “Thanks for coming round last night,” I said as I bunged my plate in the dishwasher.

Phil handed me his plate. “My pleasure.” He took the opportunity to grope my arse a bit more, and when he pulled me back against his body I could feel his erection growing.

“Some of us have got work to do,” I said, moving away from him with regret.

He raised an eyebrow. “What, you can’t spare five minutes?”

“Only five? Is that all?”

“I bet I can get you off in five minutes.”

My dick jumped up to say it’d take that bet, and against my better judgement I let him pull me against him once more, this time face-to-face. His lips were salty from the butter on his toast, there were a couple of tiny crumbs in his stubble, and I was in way over my head, here. He kept on kissing me like the toast had just been the first course and it was me he really wanted for breakfast, while one hand kept on massaging my arse and the other worked on my cock. Pleasure surged through me in pulses, making me gasp into his mouth.

Five minutes? It was more like two and a half before I was coming helplessly, my spunk shooting out in an arc that landed on the kitchen floor, narrowly missing the cats. Merlin gave me a disgusted look, then carried on chowing down.

Phil backed off a couple of inches, looking smug. “Better wipe that up before anyone slips in it,” he suggested. “Oh, and Tom?” he added as I reached a limp arm over to the kitchen roll.

“Yeah?”

“I’d think seriously about getting some blinds in here. The neighbours are getting a right eyeful, and I think they’re getting a bit pissed off about it.”

I darted a panicked glance to the window. There was no one there, of course. “Stop winding me up, you git,” I muttered as I bent down to clean up the mess.

“Now there’s a sight I could get used to,” Phil murmured.

“Since when have you been into looking and not touching?” I said over my shoulder, with my best come-hither look.

He stayed thither. “I can wait till there’s time to do the job properly. And that arse is
definitely
worth doing properly.”

I waggled it at him, then went upstairs to get dressed with a smile on my face.

When I came down again, he gave me a look. “I’ve haven’t got any other clothes here—what’s your excuse? Forget to do your laundry, did you?”

I looked down at my clothes. All right, I’d worn them last night, but they didn’t look
that
crumpled. “I’m not putting on clean clothes to go shove my head down a blocked drain. Trust me, no one’s going to even notice if
I
pong a bit.”

Phil shook his head. “All the jobs you could have done—rat catcher, traffic warden, dustman—and you chose to go wading around in other people’s shit for a living.”

“It’s a labour of love,” I said, straight-faced.

We parted company at the front door ten minutes later, and Phil went off back to his place for some clean socks—actually, come to think of it, socks were the one item of clothing I could actually have lent him. It wasn’t exactly a sentimental farewell; just a nod and a “See you later.” I had to get a shift on, over to the other side of St Albans for Mrs. R. and her blocked drain. Still, at least I was pretty certain I
would
see him later. All of him. My good mood lasted all the way to her house, and even through lying on the ground with my arm down a foul-smelling pipe to the shoulder—then disappeared down the plug-hole when Dave called.

He was another one who didn’t bother with
hello
. “What’s all this about the bloody vicar, then?”

“Kind of in the middle of a job, here,” I protested, trying not to drip slime on my clothes from the hand that wasn’t holding my phone, while Mrs. R. wrinkled her nose at me. In the cold light of day, it all seemed a bit daft, me getting so creeped out by the Rev.

“Put that on your gravestone, shall we?”

“What? Look, you’ve got it all wrong. He was just acting a bit odd, that’s all.” I glanced at Mrs. R., who was cleaning her glasses on her sari and trying to pretend she wasn’t listening in. “Look, I can’t talk right now. I’m with a customer.”

“How soon will you be finished?”

“Half an hour, maybe? Depends.”

“Soon as you can get away, I want you down the station.”

“You what?”

“You heard me. I want a proper statement from you about what the vicar told you—none of this
oh, he was acting a bit odd, but I’m sure it’s nothing
. I want the facts, that’s all. And then
I’ll
decide if it needs following up.”

“Fine.” I might have huffed a bit.

“And you can leave off the martyred tone, all right? This isn’t a bloody game. It’s a murder investigation. So we do things my way—no, bollocks to that,
I
do things my way.
You
don’t even breathe funny without a court order and a note from your mum.”

“That’d be you, then, would it? All right, all right, I’ll be there, keep your hair on. What’s put you in such a bad mood—did she stand you up last night or something?”