Chapter Thirteen

Lucien

Billy-Ray’s funeral is a sad little affair, attended by a few staff from the ICU and a handful of relatives, none of whom ever bothered to visit him in hospital apart from his grandmother. Jay had insisted on coming with me and stands guard at my side throughout, giving me the strength to remain dry-eyed in front of curious work colleagues.

Any tears wouldn’t have been wholly for Billy-Ray, although he was worthy of many, but the soulless crematorium brings back the horror of the consecutive funerals held at our little estate chapel—first my parents and then Oliver and Isobel. I endured those with only my cousin Freddie for comfort. The solid presence of Jay Sorrentino would have been most welcome.

Afterwards, I’m grateful to be sinking into the red leather seats of his car. Knowing without needing to be told, Jay’s unfussy support shields me, from the quick press of my hand during the brief eulogy to the way he deftly steers us away at the end, after offering a few ineffectual words to Billy-Ray’s shell-shocked grandmother.

I’ve hardly seen Jay since the trip to his parents, and I’ve craved him as sunflowers crave the sunlight. A hasty kiss in my office, an even hastier one against the back wall of lockers in the theatre changing rooms while two surgeons discussed a challenging abdominal operation barely three feet away from us, and a torturous department meeting with him sitting next to me along the row of seats, our knees touching and my cock throbbing.

He’s been dreadfully busy, and I understand, I really do. They finally have a buyer for the house, and so the endless paperwork begins, as if the conveyancer is negotiating a deal for a shopping complex in Knightsbridge instead of a boxy two-up two-down just on the edge of Allenmouth town centre. Of course, in addition, we have those pesky things called jobs that take up an awful amount of time, and Ellie needs him, which I understand less well. But she’s working for exams, trying to tease apart their shared lives, trying to find a flat of her own, and essentially, I’m at the end of a long line of commitments for him.

“Come to London with me,” I urge as we drive away from the crematorium.

“What, now?”

“Yes, now. You’re not rostered to be at work tomorrow, and I want to take you up the Shard. I should do it in Billy-Ray’s memory.”

“That sounds like a novel excuse.”

He’d laughed when I’d told him about one of my final conversations with Billy-Ray. I’d been comforted to know that Jay was with him in his last few hours, even if I’d broken my promise to the poor boy.

Despite Jay’s insane driving, I manage to nod off in the car. There’s something indescribable about being with him that enables my whole body to relax, the nervous exhaustion I’ve stored up over the last eighteen months ebbing away from me. He must think I suffer from narcolepsy or something.

A phone call trumpeting through the Bluetooth speakers wakes me as we approach the M25, abruptly cutting off the background lull of sports commentary. A male voice I recognise but can’t place launches into a tirade before Jay’s scarcely said hello.

“Finally! You’re like bloody Lord Lucan at the moment, Jay-Jay!”

Jay laughs easily. “Hi, Evan. How’s it going?”

He mouths ‘second-best man’ at me, by way of explanation, and some chit-chat goes back and forth, essentially an exchange of derogatory comments aimed at each other. It’s boy banter, something I’m able to recognise but in which I don’t partake. I can put a face to the voice’s owner now, one of the junior surgeons, a short, confident lad. Very keen and smart—one of the one’s I find almost tolerable, in fact.

“So, Jay, fancy a pint later? Me and some of the rugby lads are going to the White Hart to watch the match.”

“No, sorry, mate. I’m…er…not around.”

“Where are you then? Ellie didn’t think you were on nights?”

“No…um…I’m not. I’m driving up to London with a friend. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

There’s a pause, an audible groan, and then some swearing.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Jay! You’re with that posh twat again, aren’t you? Jesus, what’s got into you, man? He’s so fucking weird.”

Gosh, so this is a tad awkward. Jay glances across at me anxiously, and I blow him a kiss.

“Evan, I’m currently driving, and I’ve got you on speakerphone in the car. The posh twat is sitting here next to me.”

“Hello, Evan,” I say brightly. “How are you? I do believe we have an operating list together next week. Should be fun, don’t you agree?”

It’s rare to hear a surgeon apologise, let alone grovel, and it’s a pleasing performance only marred at the end by Evan reminding Jay his presence is essential this coming weekend to celebrate his birthday. And he makes a point that Ellie will be there as well. Not for the first time, Jules’s words echo in my head, and Jay’s recent busyness with Ellie and the house and everything only serves to underline them.

We arrive at my family’s pad in Mayfair, a vast Georgian residence that has been in my family since, well, Georgian times. It’s undergone several modifications over the years, not least when my grandfather bought up the properties on either side. Jay becomes quieter and quieter as I direct him to the underground parking. I suppose this place is quite imposing, as is the estate, but sometimes I forget the effect it has on others as these properties are just parts of my life that have always been there. Ascending from the lift to the house, we are greeted by a pair of very pretty spangly silver Converse boots carelessly lying in the doorway, and a rather extraordinary green fishnet jacket thingy hanging up next to them. A pink feather boa is casually draped across the console table. They’re difficult items to ignore, and they jar with the otherwise immaculate grand entrance.

“Bloody hell, I know you have an eclectic wardrobe, Lucien, but…”

I kick the shoes to one side and beckon Jay through into the hallway. “Oh, ignore those; they’re probably Freddie’s. He leaves his clothes everywhere. It’s like a territorial marking.”

Jay frowns at me. “Who the hell is Freddie?”

A teensy-weensy bit of possessiveness in that tone? Ooh, yes, how marvellous.

“Uncurl your fists, Jay darling. I’ve mentioned him to you before. He’s my cousin and a very, very naughty boy. I let him stay here sometimes when he’s hiding from everyone.”

“Interesting footwear,” he remarks, following me into the house. “Why is he hiding?”

“He’s a model,” I explain. “He’s twenty-four, and he’s usually trying to avoid either his father, his accountant, his dealer, the agency, or his exceedingly dull partner. Or sometimes all of them at the same time.”

I turn and face him. “And I have an enormous soft spot for him. After the accident, he phoned me every single day for three months to check I was still breathing. And visited me whenever he could, despite his hectic schedule. Whereas I think most of my other relatives only saw pound signs and were hoping I’d fall into a spectacular depression and kill myself.” I lean closer, my mouth to Jay’s ear, and whisper, “Added to that, darling, Freddie’s of the lavender persuasion. He’s one of us.”

Jay’s lips quirk. “What, an anaesthetist?”

“Stop teasing and give me a kiss.”

He does as requested, his arms circling my waist and pulling me close, his perfect soft lips warm against mine. When we’re like this, I can almost believe he belongs solely to me. I snuggle closer, smelling him, burrowing into his neck, tasting him.

“Are you…are you…licking me, Luce?” he murmurs after a few moments, his hand roaming under my waistband and down to my arse.

“Possibly,” I confess, my voice muffled against his skin.

“I hope I’m not going to wake up in the morning with a pink feather boa tied around my wrists.”

I giggle and lick him again, my tongue tickling behind his ear. “Now, there’s an idea.”

He squeezes gently. “This Freddie of yours, does he look like you?”

“I’m an older, even prettier version. But, yes, he does. We are usually mistaken for brothers. You’ve probably seen his ads—he does the Jean Paul Gautier aftershave ones, some Ralph Lauren preppie stuff too.”

Jay chuckles against me. “That figures.” He surprises me by ghosting a finger over my cleft, and I wriggle with pleasure, pushing back for more. “Have we got time for me to fuck you nicely, Luce?”

In a sedate and leisurely fashion, I lead him by the hand to my room on the first floor, taking in a small tour of the priceless artwork on the walls, the ornate Louis XIV furniture in the salon, and the intricate plasterwork on the ceiling roses.

That’s an enormous fib of course—we see neither to the left or the right as we canter up the stairs, pulling our clothes off as we go. Once in my room, he divests me of the remaining items, sweeps me up, and deposits me in the middle of the bed while kicking off his shoes and trousers before diving on top of me. My cock is as hard as a thousand-piece jigsaw, as Oliver used to say, and Jay’s is, too, as he claims my mouth and our cocks tussle against each other. If we carry on like this, there won’t be any fucking, just a soggy mess between us, and I come up for breath, panting a little.

“There’s some stuff in the drawer,” I say, indicating my bedside table.

“What, more Lurpak?” He laughs as he sits back on his heels and reaches for the drawer. “That’s an unusual place to store the butter.”

Then a split second later. “Whoa! What the fuck, Luce? I don’t even know what half of this stuff is for! What the hell do you do with…” He’s shaking his head as he rummages around. “No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

“Oh, that little collection.” I giggle as he comes back with my favourite vanilla-scented lube that I have specially imported from New York. I admire the Waitrose essentials range for many everyday household necessities, but lube isn’t one of them. “It’s all Freddie’s.”

He snaps open the lid and sniffs appreciatively. “You’re such a fucking liar. Now, tell me what to do. I want to do it properly so that it’s utterly perfect for you.”

His matter-of-fact consideration blows me away. No one, and certainly not Jules, has ever wanted it to be all about me. I grab a pillow and shove it under my hips before bringing my knees up and widening my legs for him, all of me open and on display.

He moistens his lips with his tongue. “God, you’re beautiful. So fucking beautiful.”

Over the next hour or so, I begin to totally comprehend why Ellie isn’t giving up on him without a fight. Because our sweet man really knows how to make love. I had my fair share of sexy times in my youth, which partly explains why young Freddie has me wrapped around his little finger. Everything Freddie’s doing, I did myself—girls, boys, threesomes, kinky clubs. And I still managed to get up for work the next morning, which I frequently remind Freddie when he’s whinging about having to spend a few days on a yacht shoot in Monaco after a heavy night out. But none of it, none of those casual, experienced partners, and definitely not Jules, come close to making me feel how Jay does. The house could be collapsing around us, and I’m not sure I’d notice.

He prepares me so carefully, so lovingly, he crooks his fingers so perfectly onto my prostate that I’m whimpering and begging by the time he lines up his cock. Entering me with one smooth slide, he whispers sweet nothings into my ear while he pauses, allowing me to get used to the feeling of fullness. I revel in the stretch and burn, wrapping my legs around him as it subsides, to be replaced by a glorious swell of pleasure. Not to beat about the pubic bush, but my Jay is rather well endowed. His cock is gorgeous, darker than mine with a thick violet vein pulsing along the underside. He’s wider, too, and gosh, does he know how to angle it just so, so precisely. Drawing my legs up even higher so he’s right at the hilt, his wiry pubes scratch deliciously against my balls. He slides one of his hands between our bodies, and with the tip of a wet finger, lightly touches where he’s entered me.

“God, Luce. I love that you take me like this; I could come without moving, just watching you and kissing you.”

I’m in agreement with him as he brackets my face with his arms and his lips find mine. Our hips begin moving regardless, in infinitesimal degrees, the scratch of his hairy belly an exquisite torture on my cock trapped between us. He’s on his elbows but holding my hands in his by the side of my head, our fingers linked together tightly. I feel like I’m being fucked from the inside out, every push and retreat a silent I love you. When I come, it’s with scarcely an increase in tempo, hands free, no wild rutting, no yelling climax, just a shuddering release followed swiftly by a hot liquid rush of heat inside me as Jay does the same.

“Sixteen generations of aristocratic cheek bones. Very nice. You remind me of that actor from Twilight.”

We’ve cleaned up, kissed a hell of a lot more, and now we’re stretched out in my bed, my head on that overgrown chest as usual, his thumb tracing a path across my cheek. I have to pretend I only vaguely know to what and whom he’s referring. We haven’t quite reached the stage in our relationship when I can admit that one of my guilty pleasures is masturbating to old Robert Pattinson interviews on YouTube with a dildo up my arse. I’m undeniably flattered, nonetheless.

“Which actor?” I answer coyly. “You mean…er, whatshisname, Robert… um… Richard… Patter… something?”

He shakes his head, the bugger. “Nah, not him. I mean the old guy who plays the girl’s dad.” He plants a kiss on the top of my head. “Of course I bloody mean him! The one who plays the main vampire, that my sisters used to love. Edward isn’t it? Except that you are a lot blonder, skinnier, and have a few more wrinkles.”

Charming. “I think the descriptor you are looking for, Jay, is slender, and unfortunately, us mere mortals do have that pesky problem of ageing to contend with.”

“Are you going to tell me that I remind you of that stacked werewolf—Jacob?”

“No, certainly not!” Because that boy can’t hold a candle to you. “Not after that dreadful comment about the wrinkles.”

I love you has been on the tip of my tongue, ready to be blurted out since we arrived at the house. But, in the words of a well-known song, those three words are said too much and, in some circles, not enough.

When I was learning how to critique medical research papers, one professor advised me to always apply the ‘so what’ test. For example: smoking causes lung disease. So what? Well, if you stop smoking, you will have healthier lungs and live longer. Thus, it passes the ‘so what’ test. Another example: smokers are less likely to vomit after anaesthesia than non-smokers. So what? We’re not going to encourage everyone to take up smoking prior to undergoing an operation. Thus, it fails the ‘so what’ test and, while undoubtedly an interesting fact, falls into the category of unhelpful research. Another example: I love you, Jay. So what? Declaring my love isn’t going to make him love me back, although he’ll feel obliged to come up with some sort of kindly response. So, for the moment, I keep my love to myself, curled up tightly next to my heart, and continue to lick his left nipple instead.