“Giles?”
“Mmm?”
He didnât look up from his book, but there was a faint lift in that
sound that told me he was surprised Iâd spoken. He hadnât said I
couldnât though, and Iâd 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 heâd left
out accidentally.
“You ever written any poetry?”
“No.”
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 Iâd 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 heâd 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 heâd done that he didnât touch it again but the
appreciative look Iâd got when I was settled into position made it
worth it.
I donât think Iâd have stayed hard though, if he hadnât 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 Iâd knelt and watched his face in profile, until if Iâd dared to
close my eyes it wouldâve 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 Iâd wondered when heâd realise he was hard too, put the fucking
book - angled so I couldnât read a word - down, and take care of me.
Which is why I broke the silence, because Iâve learned that trying to
out-wait Giles isnât worth the time it takes.
“Would you care to rephrase that, Spike?”
“âBloody liarâ?”
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 didnât seem all that angry and he didnât seem to be enjoying it all
that much either - fuck knows Iâm an expert on Gilesâ hand applied to
my backside by now; I could tell. It was just something he had to do,
and he did it, and I didnât 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 didnât think weâd 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 youâre lucky thatâs all I came up with.”
“Iâm 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. Couldâve
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
couldnât 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, didnât you? Ethan.” Even saying the name made my mouth
twist sourly. Jealous? Shouldnât have been -but I was...
“Spike -”
Exasperated, bad-tempered and just about ready to crack. I backed off
just enough to give me room to aim.
“Itâs all right, Rupert. Guess itâs hard to rhyme ‘Spikeâ with anything
...oh wait, no it isnât.”
He rolled over, gave me a look that left me singed and smouldering
around the edges, and said through gritted teeth. “I canât, donât and
have never written any poetry. If I could, Iâd doubtless be inspired to
write a sonnet to your cheekbones, or more likely your arse, but I
canât.” He stared at me and his voice softened. “If
it was something I did when I was in love, youâd be able to carpet your
crypt with canzonettas, but -”
‘Theyâre 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
‘Gilesâ, Spike?”
I went to him and straddled his lap, bending in to kiss his throat and
felt him welcome me. “Wouldnât know.”
Heâd 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, ‘smilesâ might and yes, possibly ‘beguilesâ. But
‘British Islesâ got me spanked again...
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