Page 92 of Pansies

That earned him a sweet, drowsy sound of mingled pleasure and reluctance. “Oh, Alfie, I need to get the shop ready or the stock will spoil and we’ll lose even more money.”

“Can I help out?”

Fen shook his head. “I can manage.”

“I wasn’t saying you couldn’t. Just asking to be involved.”

“I don’t want you to be involved.” He was going to insist, but Fen went on. “I’d rather think of the hot man in my bed than drag you out of it before dawn to unload deliveries.”

As arguments went, it was pretty irresistible. “Well, at least let me give you something to take with you.”

“I really have to—”

“Won’t take long.”

Alfie rolled Fen onto his back, pinned him down by the hips, and went down on him with gusto.1 He was still all warm and sleep-lax, except for his cock, which was hard enough to challenge Alfie’s gag reflex. Not that he minded—he liked it when Fen was a little out of control. Which he soon was, the air full of his hoarse moans and the scrabble of his fingers against the wall above his head and his body writhing under Alfie’s hands. He came in a scant handful of minutes, babbling out an incoherent stream ofyesandohandAlfie Alfie Alfie.

“Now that,” said Alfie, sitting back on his heels and wiping his mouth, “is a proper wake up.”

Fen was strewn, noticeably wobbly-legged and pink-flushed, across the sheets. “I think you might be insatiable, Alfie Bell.”

Greg had made a similar observation, even though Alfie was firmly under the impression he had average appetites for a healthy northern lad in his prime. And, besides, he was starting to discover his enthusiasm for Greg, while it had been pretty major at the time, was nothing compared to his desire for Fen. Who he could barely keep his hands off. Who, in fact, some bestial part of his brain—well, probably not hisbrainexactly—wanted to keep naked and fuck-ready forever.

Shit. He was a pervert. A gay pervert.

“Well.” He shrugged. “I’ve got years of catching up to do.”

Fen stretched, muscles pulling tight under the smooth wave of his skin. “And there I thought I was special.”

“No, no, you are. It’s never been like this before. Never felt like—”

He was mercifully interrupted by Fen’s laughter. And then by his mouth. It wasn’t exactly the sexiest or the most romantic kiss Alfie had ever received, given they were both barely awake and Fen tasted sleepy and he probably tasted of Fen, but it was still…exactly right.

“You’re so sweet,” Fen whispered, fingers grazing the stubble at Alfie’s jaw.

Alfie didn’t think he was—not with the sort of stuff he’d been thinking a minute ago—but Fen looked so happy right then, his mouth soft and smiling, his eyes full of light, that he wasn’t about to correct him. He just wished he could make Fen look like that all the time.

Except then he was rolling away. Standing, gleamy and intriguing in the half-light. And gone. Presumably into the shower, from the groaning and clattering of the pipes. Alfie stuck his head under the pillow and did actually manage to drop off again, though without someone to cuddle, the bed had lost its only possible advantage. Waking a couple of hours later, he reflected ruefully that between his mattress and Fen’s sofa, they probably had something approaching one decent home between them.

There was definitely no point hanging around getting backache, so he got up and dressed, and headed downstairs to the shop. Fen was, once again, pulling buckets around, all bare forearms and perky arse. Not that Alfie had ever really thought about it before, but he would have assumed floristry was a prissy, arty kind of job. Not the sort of manual labour that left Fen with such rough, strong hands.

As soon as Fen saw him, he straightened and put his hands on his hips. Clearly an ill-fated attempt to look stern when a smile was bursting out at the edges of his compressed lips. “What do you want now, Alfie?”

“I really can’t do anything to help?”

“Well, I don’t know. Can you make up some bouquets?”

Alfie sensed a trap. Also, he wasn’t sure he really wanted to sissy about with flowers in case his dad found out. But he had offered…and a day with Fen was better than a day without him. “Dunno. Is it hard?”

“Why, no, Alfie Bell. Anyone can do it. That’s why there isn’t an entire industry built around the expertise of trained florists.”

“Howay, man. Don’t be like that. Can’t I mop the floor or summin?”

There was a tense little pause. Then Fen relented. Came into his arms, leaned into him, stretched up to be kissed. “I’m sorry.”

“’S’okay.”

Fen was kind of off when it came to Pansies, but Alfie couldn’t really blame him. It must have been hard to come back, even harder to stay. Though he got that, too—Fen had already lost his mum, so letting go of the shop would probably have felt like losing her all over again. Even though, really, they weren’t the same in the slightest. And the only thing he was really keeping was the loss of her.

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