Cricket (16 page)

He didn’t miss the way Ryan’s breath hitched or the way his eyes flicked down to Henry’s lips and back to meet his gaze. There was no way Henry was going to make the first move this time. If Ryan wanted a kiss, he was going to have to go in and get it for himself.

There was hesitation there, though, too much. Too much fear, and Henry understood, he really did, but Ryan needed to learn how to find what he wanted in a constructive way, not through cruising apps and strange, misguided come-ons.

“Could I kiss you?”

“I’d like that.”

Unlike their last kiss, this one was whisper-soft. Ryan still looked confused, hesitant as he slowly closed the space between them and brushed his lips over Henry’s, waiting for a response before pressing deeper.

He tasted of gin and cigarettes, his lips warm and dry, and Henry could feel Ryan’s erratic heartbeat through the thin fabric of his shirt. He wanted more than this, to feel everything they could be together, but he settled for this for now, waiting for more, waiting to see what Ryan would initiate.

T
HEY
lay on their backs on the blanket from the sofa, most of the bottle of gin now gone and the sky clear enough to count all of the billions of stars, if they only had time enough before dawn would chase them away.

Henry was pretty sure he was drunk, but he hadn’t moved in quite some time, and the thought of sitting up to test this theory didn’t appeal to him in the slightest. After the kiss,
The Kiss
as he would now think of it, one of the best kisses he’d ever had, they’d broken apart, smiled bashfully at each other, and resumed their gin drinking.

A lot of gin drinking.

The last time he’d checked, it was close to two in the morning, plenty of the night left to do things with, if he could only think of something better to do than lie here with Ryan’s warmth next to him.

They’d discussed everything. Everything that mattered. Their childhoods, their parents, their siblings (and lack thereof, in Henry’s case), school, friends, death, philosophy, religion, politics, literature, music, children, cricket. Henry was now much more up to date with how hot Stuart Broad was. Not that he knew what Stuart Broad looked like, but according to Ryan, he was hot.

They had moved on to sex.

“So,” Ryan said, waving his glass demonstratively, and dangerously, above himself. “How the fuck do you figure out who does what?”

“What do you mean? You just do what you want to do.”

He was definitely drunk.

“No. No. I mean, like, who does the fucking and who does the… being fucked.”

Henry laughed. “Well, some men have a preference and some don’t. Actually, most men have a preference, but a lot more are fairly flexible.”

“You mean they can put their ankles over their head?”

“No, well, yes, that’s a very useful talent, but they don’t mind switching it up.”

“What do you prefer?”

Ryan turned his head, which was pillowed on his arm, and fixed Henry with a compelling stare.

“That’s a very personal question,” Henry mumbled, feeling his face flush against his will. Why was he blushing? There was no need to blush.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He grunted in frustration. “I suppose I’m flexible… to a point. I wouldn’t point-blank refuse to top, but I don’t really have any particular desire to do it.”

“So… you’re a fuck-ee, not a fucker.”

“If you like.” Henry laughed. “We generally use the terms ‘bottom’ and ‘top’.”

“Good to know.”

“Don’t you even watch gay porn?”

It was Ryan’s turn to blush. “Not really. Sometimes. Not very often, though.”

“Why not?”

He shrugged awkwardly. “It doesn’t really turn me on.”

“You need to watch better porn,” Henry muttered.

They were quiet for a while, looking at the stars again, these breaks in conversation now calm and reflective.

“Is it bad that I don’t know stuff?” Ryan asked. “About sex. With another guy.”

“No,” Henry said honestly. “No one really knows anything until they get told. Or someone shows you.”

“Like… I want to have sex with you. Maybe. If you want that too.”

Laughing, Henry turned his head to look at him. “Alcohol really makes you stupid, doesn’t it?” he teased.

“Shut up. What I was trying to say is… I don’t really know what to do. To make it good for you.”

“I can show you,” Henry said, more gently now. “If you’re happy to take it slowly, then things are generally a lot better for everyone involved. Take your time, enjoy it, you can’t go far wrong.”

Ryan nodded. “What about blow jobs?”

“What about them?”

“I’ve never done that before.”

Henry reached out and found his hand. “Honey, I am more than happy to show you how to do it.”

Ryan smacked him on the arm, which was the response that Henry had secretly been hoping for in the first place.

“I’m just scared, you know? Of hurting you.”

“I haven’t agreed to it yet.” He was teasing again, and earned himself another smack on the arm. This one hurt a bit, and he complained accordingly, happy when Ryan leaned over to kiss the tender skin.

Then Ryan’s eyes darkened. Even in the poor light spilling out from the kitchen, Henry could see how something in his expression changed. He was probably one of the least predatory men Henry had ever seen, except in that moment. Henry swallowed, and Ryan’s mouth came down slowly and captured Henry’s lips in a slow, achingly slow kiss that ended with a not too gentle bite to his bottom lip.

A raw sound was dragged from Henry’s throat, and Ryan’s expression changed to one of amusement. He kept himself propped up with one hand, and, as he leaned in for another kiss, his fingers deftly worked each button on Henry’s shirt undone.

It felt like it was happening to another person as Henry lay back on the blanket and allowed himself to be thoroughly kissed. Ryan’s hand sprawled wide on his chest, and he was sure the other man could feel the thumping of his heart. There was no reason why he should be this turned on from just a kiss. Just a kiss, for heaven’s sake. He’d done so much more than just kiss in his life, and that was a conversation he’d have to have with Ryan at some point. He was no angel. But for now, these kisses were every erotic feeling he’d ever had, all boiled down into one moment.

When Ryan pulled away again, Henry allowed himself another little moan.

“I want,” Ryan whispered, right into Henry’s ear, then ran his tongue around the shell and bit his earlobe. “I want to know what it feels like to be inside you.”

Henry smiled. “I want to know that too. Do you want to go find out?”

While Henry waited for an answer, Ryan’s hand roamed over his chest, stroking gently with fingertips, then with a palm pressed flat over his skin.

“Yes,” he said eventually. “But not tonight.”

“Okay,” Henry said, more than a little disappointed.

“Only because I think I’m drunk. And I might not perform very well.”

Henry snorted with laughter. Then, after realizing how good that felt, he let out a full belly laugh. After a moment, Ryan decided to join him, and they ended up curled together, Ryan’s head on Henry’s bare chest, his arm around Henry’s waist, holding him close.

It was nice, Henry decided, being able to hold someone like this. It wasn’t something he did very often. He pressed a kiss to the top of Ryan’s head and took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of his hair.

“Soon, though, yeah?”

“Yes,” Ryan said, his warm breath fanning over Henry’s collarbones. “Soon.”

T
HEY
decided to head to bed not long after, locking up the house and returning the blanket to the back of the sofa. At the top of the stairs, Henry hesitated, then leaned into Ryan for another slow, sweet kiss. All of Ryan’s kisses were sweet. Henry doubted the man knew any other way to kiss.

“I want you to come to bed with me,” Ryan murmured.

Henry groaned. “Shit. Shit. Honey, if I come to bed with you we
will
have sex. And you’re right—that isn’t a good idea. Not tonight.”

He dropped his forehead down to press against Ryan’s and sighed.

“Okay.” Ryan kissed him again, no tongues. Not this time. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Good night.”

“’Night, Ryan.”

That walk up to his own bed was one of the most difficult things he’d had to do in a long time, mostly because of the aching erection he was now sporting. There was a huge temptation to turn himself around and head right back downstairs, slip into Ryan’s bed and direct the other man to resume his position curled around Henry’s body. He wasn’t lying, though, when he’d said it wasn’t a good idea. Not if they were going to keep their hands off each other.

Henry contemplated jerking off in the shower again, caught sight of the time displayed in blinking red light on his alarm clock, and decided against it. He needed to get some sleep. Henry peeled off his clothes, decided to sleep in just his boxers, and settled himself under the duvet. He was pretty sure he was about to be plagued with hours of erotic dreams.

Twelve

S
OMETIMES
on a Saturday, as work on the house entered its final stage, some of Scott’s team would work overtime for a few hours in the morning. They were almost always done by three, in time to head to the pub to spend their earnings and watch sports on the big screen, or home to their families, or to go and enjoy the summer evenings.

Henry didn’t need to be there to supervise, but he liked seeing things being finished, to tick them off of his list of things that needed to be done.

When he arrived at the front door of the farmhouse, he could feel the back of his neck starting to burn, just a little bit. The sun wasn’t blazing hot but warm enough, and there was a light sheen of sweat on his lower back. He could feel it sticking his skin to his shirt.

“Ryan, I’m home,” he called out as he shut the door behind him, grateful for the cool darkness inside the house. There was no response. Henry dumped his keys, bag, toed off his shoes, and wandered through to the living room.

Ryan was lying on the sofa, one hand thrown casually over his eyes. Sleeping. Or snoozing, at least.

He was wearing only boxers and a T-shirt, probably warm, like Henry had been, from spending the morning outside. On a moment of impulse, Henry stripped out of his jeans and maneuvered himself onto the sofa, snuggling into Ryan’s side.

“Hmm?” Ryan murmured sleepily. Then, “Oh. It’s you.”

“Yeah, it’s me. Go back to sleep.”

“Wasn’t sleeping,” he murmured, then yawned widely.

Henry laughed, pulled the soft fleece blanket from the back of the sofa, and tucked it around them both. He laid his head on Ryan’s shoulder and felt the other man’s arms tighten around him. Then, after a moment, fingers gently combed through his hair.

There was nothing in the world he wanted more than to take just a little nap….

T
HEY
were both woken by the sound of a throat clearing, a noise surely intended to do the job of waking.

Henry prized an eyelid open, took sight of Stella—
fuck
—of Ryan’s sister standing at the end of the sofa, hands on hips and thoroughly intrigued expression on her face. He decided he was completely justified in groaning and burying his face farther into Ryan’s neck.

“Huh? What?” Ryan said, confirming in Henry’s mind that he really was completely useless when woken up.

“I’ll just go make a pot of tea, then,” Stella said pointedly and left the room.

“Oh shit,” Henry mumbled. “What do we do now?”

Ryan ran his bare foot up and down Henry’s bare calf, reminding him that his jeans were currently lying in a pool at the end of the sofa, knowing
exactly
how their current position would have looked to Stella who (of course) had her own set of keys to the house.

“Put your jeans on,” Ryan said. He seemed unperturbed. “Drink some tea. Hopefully, she bought cake.”

After struggling to his feet, Henry reached for his jeans and pulled them on, folded the blanket, and threw it over the back of the sofa again. Ryan scrubbed his fingers though his hair and allowed Henry to pull him to his feet.

“I’ll just… go find some clothes,” he mumbled.

“You can’t leave me with her,” Henry said desperately, grabbing on to Ryan’s arm and gripping it tightly.

“She’ll be fine. Go on.”

Feeling like he was being thrown to the lions, Henry walked through to the kitchen as slowly as he possibly could. Stella had her back to him, making the tea, so he sat down at the kitchen table and waited.

She turned, smirked at him, and handed him the red stripy mug.

Henry shook his head.

“What?”

“That’s Ryan’s mug,” he mumbled, feeling stupid. “Mine is the blue one.”

Stella’s eyebrows rose right up to her hairline, but she said nothing, swapping his mug for the one on the counter and settling herself and her green stripy mug down in the chair opposite his.

“So. You’re sleeping with my brother, then?”

Henry dropped his head to the raw wood table top, thumped his forehead against it a few times for good measure, then looked up into Stella’s blue eyes, so similar to her younger brother’s.