He didn’t look up from his book, but there was a faint lift in that sound that told me he was surprised I’d spoken. He hadn’t said I couldn’t though, and I’d learned to work with his instructions; interpreting them too literally could piss him off; trying to be clever could be very stupid, but he never punished me for something he’d left out accidentally.
“You ever written any poetry?”
Too flat, too fast. “Liar.”
The hand that been reaching out at intervals to touch my bare chest tightened on the book he held. I saw that because I’d been kneeling beside the couch for an hour now, hands behind my back, crossed at the wrist, with nothing to do but watch him read. Not a punishment; he just wanted to read and he wanted me kneeling by him, within reach, like his drink. Got me hard and he knew it, which is why he’d reached over and unbuttoned and unzipped my jeans as I knelt, reaching in and moving my cock until it stuck up, like an impudent tongue. Not all that comfortable and once he’d done that he didn’t touch it again but the appreciative look I’d got when I was settled into position made it worth it.
I don’t think I’d have stayed hard though, if he hadn’t let his hand drift over to me now and then, always seeming to know when my attention was wandering, bringing me back with a light touch, barely there, across my stomach, or, if it was too soon for him to have to do it, in his opinion, a pinch of my nipple with the edge of his thumbnail drawn down over it a moment later, pressing in hard enough to hurt.
So I’d knelt and watched his face in profile, until if I’d dared to close my eyes it would’ve been hanging against the darkness, watched his eyes track the print, his lips part and close, went lower to his wrists, looking more tanned than they really were against the folded back cuffs of his white shirt, and his hands as they held the book with a gentle, unthinking authority, fingers spread over its back, thumb rubbing at the crease between the pages.
And I’d wondered when he’d realise he was hard too, put the fucking book – angled so I couldn’t read a word – down, and take care of me. Which is why I broke the silence, because I’ve learned that trying to out-wait Giles isn’t worth the time it takes.
“Would you care to rephrase that, Spike?”
He sighed, closed the book, placed it safely on the table, and had me bent over the footstool, jeans pulled down far enough that he could get at my arse, before the pages settled against each other.
He didn’t seem all that angry and he didn’t seem to be enjoying it all that much either – fuck knows I’m an expert on Giles’ hand applied to my backside by now; I could tell. It was just something he had to do, and he did it, and I didn’t make him wait long before I gave him the apology he wanted. Got three more, hard as he could make them – and they did sting- then he sat back, breathing a little fast, and I twisted around to look at him, yanking up my jeans because I didn’t think we’d be fucking any time soon after that.
“What did I say?” I asked him, more than a little bit puzzled.
“Nothing. Well, yes, you were cheeky, but – nothing.”
He was kneeling in front of me, face a little flushed, rubbing at his hand without really noticing he was doing it. I reached out and took it, sliding my palm over it, soaking up the heat.
“What made you – why did you ask me that?” he said, still not sounding himself.
I shrugged. “Just wondered. Spend an hour with nothing to do but think and you’re lucky that’s all I came up with.”
“I’m lucky? Really?” His eyebrow lifted and I got a smile – and a kiss a second later, which was his way of saying sorry, I supposed. Could’ve done something with that kiss; it turned hot before he even touched me, just in the way his lips parted a second before they met mine, as if he couldn’t wait – but he broke it off and got back on the couch, lying so that I could only see the blunted curve of his jaw.
I moved from English Lit. to maths and added two and two.“You wrote them to him, didn’t you? Ethan.” Even saying the name made my mouth twist sourly. Jealous? Shouldn’t have been -but I was...
Exasperated, bad-tempered and just about ready to crack. I backed off just enough to give me room to aim.
“It’s all right, Rupert. Guess it’s hard to rhyme ‘Spike’ with anything ...oh wait, no it isn’t.”
He rolled over, gave me a look that left me singed and smouldering around the edges, and said through gritted teeth. “I can’t, don’t and have never written any poetry. If I could, I’d doubtless be inspired to write a sonnet to your cheekbones, or more likely your arse, but I can’t.” He stared at me and his voice softened. “If it was something I did when I was in love, you’d be able to carpet your crypt with canzonettas, but –”
‘They’re songs,” I said without thinking, trying to cover up the fact that I was having problems keeping my voice level after that. “Madrigals, not verse - umm.”
His eyes went sharp and then he said casually, “What rhymes with ‘Giles’, Spike?”
I went to him and straddled his lap, bending in to kiss his throat and felt him welcome me. “Wouldn’t know.”
He’d been moving his hands along my back in slow, possessive strokes but that made them pause. “Liar,” he said mildly. “Oh, Spike, you really should know better than to do that...”
Took him an hour, with me stripped and squirming as he teased and tormented me and never let me get anywhere close to coming, to get me to admit that, yeah, ‘smiles’ might and yes, possibly ‘beguiles’. But ‘British Isles’ got me spanked again...
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