Page 55 of The Teras Trials

“Just splendid, Mr Shaw,” I say, and then I crumple. I hate the way I sound. It’s too standoffish. Too deflective. “Leo,” I say. “I. . .”

“You don’t have to say anything,” he whispers. And then he gives me an out. He cocks his head and smiles. “It’s only a drink.”

Of course. I nod. “Only a drink,” I say with a smile I don’t feel. Disappointment rumbles in my belly—which is stupid! Half a second ago, I was nervous enough I thought I would throw up. Half a second ago, I wasn’t sure I wanted this. But when he looks at me with that gentle smile, and the touch, I want him. To be beneath him.

Leo closes the door. I go to my knees by the hollow floorboard and take out the other bottle of liquor stashed away there. Once it’s in my hand, I take a long swig from it before I hand it to Leo.

“Cass,” he says, worriedly, half-scolding. “Calm down.”

“Perfectly calm,” I say, and then I stagger up to standing and drape myself between the desk and the window.

He smiles—he knows I’m lying—and drinks deep as well. Then he comes close, to put the bottle on the desk. We lock eyes for a moment before he retreats near the bed.

“Have you done this before?” he asks me, without looking at me.

It is not such a simple question. “Yes,” I say. I feel the urge to explain myself, as if I’m in trouble, but I swallow that. “Yourself?”

He glances at me. “Yes.” Then he smiles a little, not sheepish, but confident.

Something in me unwinds. The admission itself makes us co-conspirators, harbourers of queer desires in a queer little world.

I tell myself I won’t smoke another cigarette, but I have a man in my room, and the door is closed, and that is intimacy to me. A private room and a private moment, and no fear of my brother catching me, or the look my mother will give me, or my father trying to cave my face in. So before I can register how nervous I am, my shaking hand lights a cigarette, and I move to the window to smoke it. Leo sits on the edge of the bed, leaning forward. It still groans with his weight.

The only light is from the lamp on the bedside table, and the other one I have going on the desk. It’s muted; everything is baked in terracotta glow, slight earthy redness. Only parts of Leo’s face are lit. Cheekbones. Part of the sharp jaw. A tendon in his neck that keeps tensing and untensing. Shadows are our friend tonight.

“Why are you so nervous, Cassius, if you’ve done this before?”

I don’t know how to answer that without opening up my body and pulling out all my insides, like a haruspex, as if Leo might parse from them an explanation regarding the mess of my life. I laugh a little and shrug, turning back to the window and the dark rain outside. “I don’t know. I think, perhaps, because when it ends, it ends. With men in London, I mean. We rarely, if ever, see each other again. But you and I will probably be colleagues.”

“If you’re worried about your reputation. . .”

“I barely have any of that. Honestly, I’m not sure if it’s what people think of me, or what I think of myself.” And then, because I worry how much of a turn off this conversation is, I look back at him over my shoulder. “But I wouldn’t have invited you in if it wasn’t what I wanted.”

I know I’m inconsistent. That’s faith for you; it messes you up. It’s always in conflict with what I really want. I turn to the window and smoke the cigarette unhurriedly, letting the tobacco-calm wash over me. I stare out at the pitch-black night and the rain and the silhouette of London in the distance.

There is no mirror in the room, and the window glass is fogged up by the rain and the mist. It means I have no chance to meet my own eye and talk myself out of this. No chance to find something disgusting in my gaze. I have only the rapid beating of my red-hot heart, and the heat curling around my groin. Only desire. A raw and eager thing.

When Leo stands up, the bed releases him with a springing whine. I don’t turn around. I wait, holding myself tensely, eyes on the cigarette as it smokes away to nothing. Leo’s arm wraps around me. It’s not an embrace. His hand, rough and calloused and sun-kissed, skims over mine. He plucks the cigarette from my fingers and flings it out the window. I watch the tiny burning end as it disappears into the dark, drowned by the rain.

Leo grabs my hips and spins me. My lower back smacks the stone, but my shoulders, my head, my neck—I’m half bent out the window. The cold refreshing night greets me. I fill my lungs up with it, exhaling the last of the smoke and replacing it with petrichor. Rainwater drizzles from the awning onto my forehead, my hair. Leo’s hands are on my hips, palm of his hand grinding into my pelvis like he’s fighting me. Then one arm snakes through the window, presses the wetness of my shirt against my back. He climbs between my legs, leverages them apart. I don’t stop him. I spread myself wider.

I look up; he is backlit by the lamps, only the high bones of his face and the whites of his eyes are gleaming with the light. I can barely see him, but when his lips split open, his teeth catch the glow. He leans in. I lean too.

He kisses me. It’s an inhale of a kiss; I smell the deepness of him, the golden amber, the leather of old books, the sweat. I am flooded by it. My hands tangle in his shirt and I fancy I can feel our hearts matching time, entangling themselves in a dance. He pulls away to look at me, and I am so thankful for the darkness of the room. I am embarrassed. I have a priest in my ear calling me a sinner, and a devil on my shoulder desperate for the intimacy. For the love.

God, is it such a sin to want to be loved?

He kisses me again, forcefully, pushing our faces together. Teeth skim my lip, sharp, biting. He drives me against the desk; ink bottles clatter against one another, chair scraping against the floor. Leo kicks off his shoes and I put my hand to the back of his neck to keep him from pulling away—we keep kissing, our hips grinding impotently against each other. I feel the tenting in his pants, feel my own groin throb in response. Leo grunts; I look, I see his eyebrow quiver, eyes closed tight. His hands are inescapable things. His grip is so strong, when he moves me there’s no fighting it. We stumble back from the desk and the window, blindly moving toward the bed. Leo’s hands go to my shirt. I go straight for his pants. I unbuckle the belt, move to the buttons. He tugs my shirt free and throws the offending thing out of sight, moving immediately to kiss my bare neck, my chest, and I lose the purchase on his pants. He takes my hand in his, moves my arms high to grip his hair. I am pulled into him, eager for this closeness, and then I’m tugged down and we’re on the bed, a messy tangle of limbs, panting. On top of him, I look down to see his face cast in red shadow. Both his hands go to my hips, keeping me still above him, and he thrusts up against me, a desperate little grind. He is straining in his pants, now. Those buttons are probably killing him.

With a grunt, he spins us so my back is on the bed, pulls my legs apart in the same motion. Gone is the cautious tenderness; he’s hungry and he’s using strength to his advantage. Flush against my groin, he hastily undoes the buttons. I kick my shoes off behind his back. Before I’m done, he’s kissing me again, tugging my head back with a firm, possessive grip on my hair.

I make a noise, a little moan—I can’t help it—and he surges forward, one hand pulling hard, wrenching my neck back, the other splayed on my chest, and I buck my hips like an animal, eager for him to take my pants off. Leo gives an insistent tug and I arch for him, shielding my face because now it’s only me straining in my drawers, and the muted lamplight is too much, and then Leo doesn’t stop with my pants. My breath hitches as he hooks two fingers on the waistband, pulling them just low enough my aching cock is freed. I squeeze my eyes shut, hands on my face. Leo pries them away and kisses me, shuffling out of his own pants as he does. Desire is stronger than my embarrassment. I reach down and arch my back and slip the drawers free, holding Leo in a kiss. The other man runs his hand over my trembling belly, and takes me in the palm of his hand, just once, just enough for me to cant my hips. Then before I know what’s happening, he pulls both my legs over his shoulders and folds himself over me, cock spilling onto my belly as he reaches for the bedside table and the oil top-up for the lamp. He coats his fingers, eyes on me, and I know he wasn’t lying when he said he’s done this before. He coats himself, goes to coat me, but I don’t like the feel of that. Wordlessly, I push his fingers aside and reached for the other, his cock-filled hand, pulling it towards me until it’s lined up.

We look at each other. He pushes forward.

“God,” Leo moans on entry, “God,” and it’s the most beautiful prayer I’ve ever heard. A blessing and a begging all in one. He pushes deeper and it hurts and I’m tensing around him until he’s all the way inside, moaning high as I adjust. I feel him quiver inside me.

“Cass?” he whispers, and in answer I kiss him and gently move until he moves with me, until I feel him building pace and I’m reeling with every rebound, every thrust, pleasure popping like starbursts behind my eyes.

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