Commitment Issues by Ali Ryecart
Chapter Seventeen
Freddie
The bright sun awakens me, streaming into the bedroom and bringing its heat with it. The doors leading to the verandah are wide open, the breeze shifting the voile curtains. I stretch and yawn, and as the fog of sleep lifts, memories from the previous night rush in. Marcus and Gavin… admitting all to Andrew… but they fade to nothing as my mind fills with Elliot pulling me against him in the darkness. Pulling me hard.
Hard.
Heat floods my groin, and a low groan pushes through my lips as my hand, lying on my belly, slips down and wraps around my cock. I let my eyes drift back to shut and suck in a shuddering breath as my palm begins a slow slip and slide, pulling my foreskin up and over the engorged head, smearing the precum pearling at my slit.
Elliot’s next door, sprawled out on the sofa. And naked.
In my fantasy he’s naked, and it unrolls in my head like a ball of string.
The sheet pools on the floor where he’s thrown it off in the night. He’s on his stomach, his round, muscled arse tensing as he thrusts hard into the soft leather of the sofa. One hand’s buried beneath his taut and quivering body as he fucks into his fisted palm, the other clutching hard to the arm rest.
I bite down on my lower lip, forcing back the moan aching to escape my throat as my hips thrust upwards, meeting the downwards push of my fist, tight around my cock. My skin’s hot, sticky, and sweat-coated, my hips cant upwards, harder and faster, my breath strained and ragged as my juice-soaked fist picks up speed, my fantasy Elliot mirroring my every thrust and push and pull and squeeze. I clamp my eyes closed, as my balls tighten and lift, as heat burns low in my belly, as my breathing stutters and I fight to hold back the wail rising in my throat.
Biting down harder, I force myself to stem my moans, and gasps, and muttered curses. Tasting blood, I wince as together mine and fantasy Elliot’s releases burst from us, coating our hands in hot, sticky semen.
“Oh, fuck,” I whisper on a shaky breath. I swallow hard. Soon, I’ll be facing the living, breathing, and very definitely not fantasy Elliot. I sniff hard. Will he be able to smell the evidence? I look down at my hand, now lying limp and lifeless around my equally limp and lifeless cock. It’s time to wash away the evidence, if I can summon the strength to drag myself to the shower. The effort feels monumental, as I push myself up on quivering arms then onto trembling legs, the sheet falling away — and smearing my cum all over it.
“Shit.” Elliot’s supposed to be having the bed tonight, and there’s no way I’m going to let him crawl under sheets stiffened with my dried on jizz.
Fuck, fuck, fuck… There has to be some more bedding… I dash to the cupboard, about to open it when there’s a knock at the door.
Something that sounds like a high pitched whine escapes me, as I dither between jumping into the cupboard or making it across the room before the door opens.
“Freddie? You awake?” Elliot calls out, sounding too damn perky and not like a guy who’s just exploded in a cum bomb — which of course he hasn’t, because that’s been my morning fantasy.
“Yes. Be out soon. Just about to have a shower,” I squeak.
“We’re expected for breakfast in half an hour, out by the pool.”
“Yep. Fine. Sure. Okay.”
Silence.
I creep towards the en-suite.
“Freddie? Are you all right?”
I freeze, and stare at the door handle.
He won’t come in—will he?
“Be with you in ten.” Somehow moving my frozen limbs, I dash into the bathroom and lock the door behind me.
Is a morning wank really worth the hassle? But then my hot little fantasy smashes straight back into me, and I whimper as I remember Fantasy Elliot’s sated smile and lust-clouded eyes… Oh yes, it’s worth it.
* * *
The pool looks even more spectacular in the bright morning sunshine than it did last night when it’d sparkled from the flickering lights from the artificial flares.
The buffet style breakfast is laid out on a long table with three large round tables set up to the side of it.
Like the pool, the villa’s more beautiful in the warm sunlight, with its ochre walls and tall windows with white-painted wooden shutters open wide. It’s subtle and classic, and reeks of money and sophistication and if Marcus has been the designer master mind behind it, he’s got some serious taste. Yet, despite all this, I can’t help thinking of all those adverts that pop up on the telly just after Christmas, for villa holidays in the sun. Maybe they make some extra dosh renting it out to The Posh Villa Company, or Villa Holidays to Make Your Mates Jealous.
“I hope you found the gîte comfortable?”
I jump as Marcus appears by our side, out of nowhere, as Elliot and I stroll, hand-in-hand obviously, towards the laden breakfast table.
“Yes, thank you,” I say with a smile. “That bed’s so comfy.” I’m not going to add that I’d slept in it alone.
Marcus nods but doesn’t answer. He seems a lot more subdued than last night, his edge blunted.
“Will you be joining us on the yacht? We’re leaving from the marina in town at eleven, for an afternoon’s sailing along the coast.”
“As long as I don’t have to do any work and can lap up the sun,” I say, laughing. “Ells, what do you think?”
“Sounds perfect.”
Marcus smiles, but it’s thin and low wattage. “Good. In the meantime, enjoy breakfast.”
Marcus scuttles off, leaving us to help ourselves to fruit, yoghurt and honey, and warm pain au chocolat.
I pile my plate high. I’m starving, and I wonder if it has anything to do with my early morning activities. I slide a glance at Elliot, who’s looking chic and cool and totally as though he belongs in a world of villas and yachts. Yes, it does, and the answering throb in my dick agrees.
We take our food over to one of the tables where an older couple I vaguely recall from last night greet us with friendly smiles and good mornings.
“We need drinks,” I say to Elliot. “Is it all help yourself, or will somebody come and sort us out?” I lower my voice, not wanting the two older guys to hear, but they’ve already turned their attention back to their nearly finished breakfasts. I’d once stayed in a hotel with my parents and siblings, when I was just a kid, where breakfast was buffet style but the hot drinks were served by waiters.
“All self service. I think there’ll only be rubbish tea on offer, so I’ll have a coffee.” He smiles, the skin at the corner of his eyes creasing.
Tea. The two of us fooling around, scrambling to take possession of the illicit little box. Elliot holding me hard against him, both of us breathless, and a kiss that didn’t happen — because of an owl. Feathery little bastard.
I nod and jump up from my seat, muttering that I’ll be back shortly.
Elliot’s right about the tea, there are only gnats’ wee versions, or twig brew, which I always call green tea, and those tasteless infusions. Wrinkling my nose, I turn to the coffee machine. It’s a larger version of the one we have in the cottage, with a varied selection of coffee styles to choose from. It’s a latte for me and — I have no idea what Elliot will have. I’ll have to go and ask, but the voice behind me stops me dead.
“Americano, two shots, but with the smallest dash of milk. If there’s no tea the colour of tar, it’s what he always goes for. I’m surprised you don’t know that.”
My back stiffens, along with my jaw, but I will them to relax as I plant a bright smile on my face.
“As we’re either in my bed or his, we’re never faced with having to choose. We both prefer the leaf to the bean first thing,” I say, as I turn to face Gavin, my smile so stiff and strained it’s making my face ache. “A nice steaming mugful in bed. Along with a cooked breakfast, before we take Jasper for a long walk. But that’s reserved for weekends. During the week he’s up and out before I’m hardly awake, but I suppose it’s what makes those long and lazy mornings in bed so precious.”
If I have to hold on to my smile for much longer, it’s going to crack and fall to the ground.
“Really? That’s — surprising. Weekend mornings were reserved for extra-long runs up on Hampstead Heath, and as for a cooked breakfast, he never touched it. Elliot was strictly a fruit and muesli man. I thought he was looking a little fuller around the middle.” He smiles, but there’s something watchful about it, and I take my time to answer.
“Well,” I say slowly, “there are other, and more fun ways, of getting hot and sweaty. And as for a cooked breakfast, he needs something of substance. To keep his strength up. And to replenish his protein stocks.”
We’re both looking down the barrel of a gun, egging each other on, daring each other to blink first. A tiny muscle twitches in his jaw. I’ve rattled him, I’ve got under his skin, and I give a silent whoop, a high-five, and a happy dance as I stand up straighter. A childish thrill runs through me that I’m a good three or so inches taller. And who said size doesn’t matter? It does, and I know what to do with it.
“Anyway, tea or coffee, who cares? Whichever, I always serve it up hot for him, with a little extra on the side. Excuse me, but I need to get on because he’s waiting for me.” I turn my back on him, it’s rude and dismissive, but I don’t care.
Where the hell has that come from? Other ways of getting hot and sweaty… replenishing protein… serve it up hot? But I know exactly where I’ve dragged all that up from: Cosmo. I’ve been listening to his cringe-worthy pick-up lines since I was eighteen, which always, somehow, unbelievably, seem to work. I’ve absorbed it all in a kind of weird osmosis. Cosmo puts his success with men down to his being cute. I always say he just numbs them with his stupidity.
I sort out the coffee, my hands not quite as steady as I’d like, and turn to go back to the table. Gavin, thank God, has gone.
“Are you all right?” Elliot’s brow creases in concern as I put the cups down harder than I mean to, slopping some of the hot coffee onto the pristine table linen. “I saw you talking to Gavin, and could see the ice bergs from here. Did he—?”
“I just don’t understand how you and him — you’re so ill-matched. I don’t get it.” The words tumble from me, escaping before I can catch them. It’s not my business, and Elliot’s got every right to be angry with me. “I’m sorry,” I mumble, too embarrassed, too mortified, to look him in the eye.
“We certainly ended up mismatched and out of kilter,” he says slowly, a moment later. “But that’s not how we started. For a long time, things were good. Or I thought they were. People grow apart as they find they want and need different things from life. You’ll understand that when you’re older.”
When you’re older…When I’ve grown up and don’t blurt out whatever’s in my head. In his eyes it’s clear I’m young and immature and after that outburst how can I blame him for thinking that?
If I’d put my brain into gear before letting go of the handbrake on my mouth, I would have realised that wherever he and Gavin are now, they’d been a couple and strong enough to have made the first steps towards marriage.
I lift my head and force myself to look him square in the face, ready to face his irritation, even anger, but I find neither and instead a light smile’s hovering at the edges of his lips.
“I’m sorry,” I say again, my words little more than a whisper. “I’ll be better behaved, I promise. And I’ll do my best not to piss him off.”
“Why make promises I doubt you can keep? And anyway,” he says, sounding thoughtful and with what looks like laughter dancing in the depths of his eyes, “I’m rather enjoying watching you do just that. It’s the whole reason for you being here, isn’t it?”
And it is the reason, because what other reason could there be? But it still feels like I’ve been punched in the guts. I nod, before dipping my head and feigning interest in a breakfast that’s become as appetising as sawdust.
