Page 8 of Pansies

Except now he was back up north, it was starting to feel like he’d become, somehow, less than himself. Sort of a sketch. Just blunt lines and the basics. What a fucking joke. Not north, not south. A straight gay man.

He turned and tried a welcoming gesture. “So this is me like.”

Fen was staring at the awful carpet.

And suddenly all Alfie could think about was the man’s mouth under his, so absolutely right that nothing else seemed to matter. Fuck it. “Come ’ere.”

To his surprise, the guy—Fen—did. This time, Alfie didn’t even hesitate, just caught him and kissed him, hard and deep and as rough as he wanted.

This game they were playing, this notion somehow formed between them, that Alfie had a clue what he was doing, was something he could really get behind.

He splayed his hands across Fen’s back, slid down that supple curve and just…grabbed his arse, as if that was a totally reasonable thing to do, grinding their bodies and hips and cocks together.

It made Fen go wild and shuddery, his mouth turning slack against Alfie’s. And he was sort of moaning and sort of muttering,and what he seemed to be saying was “Ohgodohgodohgod.” So Alfie grabbed that too, sucking the words from Fen’s tongue, licking them up from all the velvet crevices of his mouth with the last of the salt spray and the sweet-sour trace of cheap wine.

“Fucking love how you taste.”

Fen’s only answer was a whimper, eyes so tightly closed it looked like he was frowning, his fingers latched into the dips between Alfie’s biceps.

“So”—Alfie dutifully repeated what Greg had said to him that first time because it was apparently the rules—“what you into?”

Fen’s eyes fluttered open. God, those lashes. Better than a girl’s. Alfie swooped in, pushed Fen’s glasses out of the way, and kissed his eyelids closed. His eyelashes were so soft. They tasted a little of salt as well.

“Oh,” said Fen. “Oh.”

And trembled all over again.

Alfie was kind of dizzy with joy and disbelief. Touching men, in general, was still kind of magical to him. Just the freedom of it. How fucking good it felt. He’d had some pretty enthusiastic reactions before, but nothing to match this one, or even come close. It was, honestly, a bit amazing that this hot, angry, weird guy was letting Alfie put his big hands all over him.

And acting like he’d been waiting for it his whole life.

Alfie rubbed his cheek against Fen’s, then nuzzled his way up into his hair. His jaw was rough, but the stubble was so pale you could barely see it. “Well?”

Tipping his head back, Fen gave Alfie his throat, pale and slender. “You can…” He lost control of his breath entirely as Alfie swept his tongue over that vulnerable, shuddering Adam’s apple. “You can do whatever you like to me.”

Fair enough. “I’m going to suck your cock, okay?”

“Okay.”

But when Alfie tried to drag him out of his fraying pink jumper, Fen froze. His eyes lost their pleasure-blur. “You first.”3

Alfie shrugged. “All right.”

He wasn’t vain—at least, he didn’t think he was—but he took care of his body, and you could tell. He tugged open the buttons on his shirt, peeled it off his arms, and tossed it onto the floor.

Fen stared so long and so hard it was a wonder it didn’t burn the skin right off Alfie’s bones. After what felt like forever, he reached out a shaking hand and ran it over the tribal tattoo that swept in thick black lines all the way up Alfie’s left arm, across his torso, and down his back. The skin beneath the ink prickled with awareness. “This is new.”

“Naw, had it since I was like seventeen. My best mate was supposed to be getting one as well, but he chickened out.”

Fen leaned dizzily forward and pressed his mouth worshipfully to a flourish that finished just over Alfie’s heart. He bowed his head, whispering in a swirl of hot breath, “I’m so fucking stupid.”

Once again feeling like he’d probably lost the plot, Alfie petted Fen’s hair. It was soft as his eyelashes. Silky. Not like his body at all. Or his hands, which were rough and dry and strong. “Don’t be like that. I know I look a bit of a hooligan and the ink’s a bit daft, but I was a kid—didn’t know what the hell I was doing. I wouldn’t hurt anybody.”

“I like the way you look,” muttered Fen. “And I’m so fucking stupid.”

Alfie tried to think of something reassuring he could say. BecauseI’m not a serial killerwas probably exactly what serial killers said before they serial-killed you. And maybe itwaspretty stupid for a guy who was all of five foot six, and basically madeof bones and air like some kind of exotic bird, to go waltzing off for casual sex with an enormous, tattooed stranger. But, stupid or not, who said it had to turn out bad? For either of them.

It was already the best stupid thing Alfie had ever done.

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