Page 20 of Ship of Fools

Christmas morning traditionally starts with me waking up on my parents’ sofa with a soreback and a crick in my neck. Anna usually bunks up with Bea, since Anna’s childhood room got converted into Mum’s office slash storage area for her many business ventures, and nowadays houses most of our mum’s knitting yarn, and god knows what else festers in the house where we grew up.

My room became part of the garage when I moved out, in an attempt to get our car inside the improved space. It still wasn’t large enough for Dad’s van, so now instead houses all Dad’s paperwork and files from his business. It’s just the way things are around there, and I almost half expect to wake up at home before I get my eyes open. The air smells of cooking, buttery flavours and coffee, and I’m nice and content under the covers.

I know I am home in my own flat though, in my bed. I’m all warm, satisfied and sleepy, still on a high from the night before. He should have left. That would have been easier to deal with, a slow painful nursing of that deep heartburning ache, full of memories of him, that would eventually fade. Instead, he is clearly pottering around in my kitchen, which makes me all nervous.

This wasn’t part of the plan.

I like sex. But I approach it like I do most things in life. It has to be practical, safe and easy. I have a few friends for that sort of thing, friends who are just like me and we fuck around to satisfy that itch, and it’s never something that involves feelings. I don’t even kiss them, we just suck each other off, and I get to fuck them, and they get off and I get off and then we have a cup of tea and that’s it. I know it’s hardly romantic, but it works and keeps me sane. I don’t need the complications of heartbreak and the horrific depression that follows. I’ve been there and it almost broke me. I don’t even think about it anymore. Well, I hardly think about it, until things like this happen, and I remember how easily my life could self-destruct.

Last night was just as perfect as I expected a night with him to be, and I can still smell him on my skin. I want to go shower, but that feels like washing him off me, and taking away the memories etched on my brain. Andreas was amazing, sexy and funny, making me laugh with all his little ways. He let me take charge, and that? That’s what I need. I need to be in control. That’s what makes me tick, and I…

It makes me ashamed to even think about it and admit it to myself, but I’m just like that when it comes to sex. I suppose I’ve got some dominant urges that I pull out of the hat when it comes to intimacy, yet in real life? I am skittish, scared of conflicts, and play it safer than I should. Bea has told me enough times to stop hiding and start getting myself out there again, into real life. The problem is, I like my version of real life. It’s a nice problem-free existence where I’m quite happy, thank you very much.

“You’re awake!” he says, his face lighting up like a beam of sunlight, as he comes in carrying a tray. Well, I’m no domestic goddess, so he is using my cheap IKEA chopping board as a tray, and balanced on it, are two cups of coffee and a plate of perfectly golden pancakes.

“You have no syrup, which is kind of shit, because pancakes are always better with syrup.”

“You made pancakes.” I state in disbelief.

“Yeah? I was going to do a full English, but your cupboards are kind of bare. I found one egg, so pancakes it was. You had no bloody bacon, no beans and not even a mushroom or tomato. And it’s Christmas Day, so nothing’s open in this godforsaken town.

“You made pancakes.” I stutter out again.

“Love pancakes. Here’s your coffee. It’s black because I used up the last of the milk for the pancakes. Take it or leave it. Have you got a milk frother? Just so I know, otherwise I will get you one, so I can make you a nice frothy top on your cappuccinos.”

It’s very him, so much him that I can’t stop smiling as I accept the cup of perfectly brewed coffee, a layer of perfect golden foam on the top, and steam rising from the cup. And pancakes.

He rolls one up like a cigar and hands it to me, feeding it to me like I’m a child.I lick his finger. He laughs. Feeds me another bite, sticking his thumb in my mouth, letting me clean the buttery residue off his skin.

My dick likes that too, and I half contemplate if it’s worth throwing coffee and pancakes all over the carpet, so I can take him across the IKEA chopping board that now sits on my bed.

“I want to fuck you so bad right now.” I say with a grin, and he laughs out loud, rolling up another pancake and taking a showy bite out of it as he winks at me.

“Let me finish my coffee, and you can pound my arse as much as you want. I loved last night. Loved it. I haven’t been fucked like that, like, ever. Never ever. You, can do me, anytime.”

“So, we are doing this again?” I question, before my mouth gets stuffed full of pancake, and then he leans over and kisses me breathless as I chew. It’s disgustingly lovely and stupidly erotic as I put my hand inside his dressing gown, stroking his chest and pinching a nipple.

It’s my dressing gown. He’s wearing my dressing gown, and it’s frankly stupid how much I love seeing him in it.

“I’ve…” I start, between being fed and kissed, as he crawls onto my lap and straddles me, pancake in one hand and coffee in the other.

“You’re going to spill coffee everywhere and get burned.”

“Yeah, probably, but it’ll be worth it.” He giggles back, and makes himself comfortable, now sitting cross-legged between my legs. He takes a bite of the pancake in his hand, then feeds me the remaining piece, his face far too close to my own, and I smile as he gives me a triumphant grin and takes a sip from his cup of coffee. “I could do this, every morning. I woke up and watched you sleep for a while, because the light from outside was on your face and you looked beautiful. But then I got antsy and had to get up and go explore and get a drink and it was just… I got hungry and I wanted to do something nice for you. I didn’t want you to wake up full of regrets and goOh my god, he’s still here!”

“You’re still here. I told you to stay.”

“I wanted to stay. But, you know, most guys don’t like you hanging around in the morning.”

He looks sad, and I kiss him. If I wasn’t holding my coffee, and he wasn’t holding his, I would wrap him up in a big hug, because that is something I don’t like to hear, not coming from him. Because why anyone wouldn’t want him, and wouldn’t want to wake up to his relentless chatter and perfect coffee, and his warm body in my dressing gown? Madness.

“I would want to wake up with you every morning, that would be a lovely fantasy.” I say, and kiss his temple. His forehead. Side of his head. Earning myself a mouthful of hair in the process.

“I’d happily move in with you, it’s much nicer here than in my flat.”

“Where do you live?”

“Rented furnished newbuild, you know up on the Croftlands’ estate?”He sips. I kiss. He laughs. “It’s nice enough, but I don’t own anything. I have my coffee maker, a suitcase full of clothes and my books and tech and stuff. Everything fits nicely in my Mini. I could literally move in with you this afternoon, and we could live happily ever after.” He giggles and I drain my cup. Then I drop it on the floor and cup his face.

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