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He's too tall, he's getting this comical middle-age spread, he keeps finding too many grey
hairs to yank out, and she's half his age, bright and laughing, all smooth tanned skin and
long aubergine-purple hair. She's younger than Valentine and he feels like a paedophile,
except paedophiles probably don't get laughed at very often when they're trying to get
lucky and he's a hundred percent sure she's going to start giggling again in a minute, tell
him it's a joke or something.
She doesn't. Once they're in the bedroom she starts unbuttoning his shirt for him,
tugging it off where it's cuffed around his wrists and throwing it onto the carpet. She's
only as tall as his shoulder, he almost has to stoop to kiss her. It's better when they're
stretched out and entangled on top of the covers, both topless and kissing furiously. She's
got a swirling tattoo down her side, black thorns and red roses starting on her shoulder
and wandering down her ribs, curling underneath the curve of her small breast. He
follows this with his fingertip on his way down her body to unbuckle her sandals and take
down her trousers, and she rests there against the pillows just watching him, pink-
cheeked and breathing rapidly like she's just won a race.
"And you," she says. This would be so much easier if he could somehow get
inside her without letting her see him naked, but she won't stop watching him.
"What's your real name?" he asks, but he suddenly remembers asking Valentine
that very same question the first time they got each other's cocks out in that ridiculous
stolen car and then he doesn't want to know. "No. Don't tell me, it doesn't matter, I don't
care."
"I kinda told you already," she says anyway, a whispery whimper against the
corner of his mouth. "Mary Jane."
"Pleased to meet you." She's so wet there's barely any friction at all slipping a
finger down between her legs to stroke her in gentle circles. She makes a noise, half a
gasp and half a laugh and holds his wrist until he's got two fingers inside her; he forces a
third in and the noise she makes is so shocked and hungry he nearly falls apart.
"Do it now," she says, fierce and urgent. She starts laughing again when he can't
unwrap a condom quickly enough, but somehow it's alright now, it's not at him, she
doesn't seem bothered he's so much older than her or anything else. She's flushed and
glowing and looking at him the way Valentine always used to look at him, like he was
something amazing.
He kneels between her parted legs and takes a moment to calm down, just
breathe. It's better after that.
"Hi," she says, quiet and smiling and shining. "So what's your real name?"
"You'll laugh." He starts moving, slow and deep, and she closes her eyes and
sighs raggedly.
"You seriously think Mary Jane Blunt makes fun of other people's names?"
"Lindsay."
"Oh my god, that's so British."
"Not when you have to grow up in Bradford." He's holding her hand against the
pillow, he didn't even realise he'd done it - fingers woven together, her small hand in his
huge one. It's how he used to hold Valentine, even if they weren't playing rough. He
always had to hold him there, pin him down like a butterfly so he couldn't fly away. He
lets go hastily, but Mary Jane finds his hand again where he's pressed it against the
mattress beside the pillow to prop himself up, stroking across his knuckles until he relents
and goes back to how they were. She's got the other hand clenched tight in the hair at the
back of his head, kissing insistently and not letting him move away, shifting her hips
under his weight to ask for more, and when she comes it's with her mouth on Lindsay's
neck muffling a guttural cry he might think she'd faked if he couldn't feel the pulsing
waves of her orgasm right up and down the length of his cock.
"Don't stop," she says, laughing again, helpless and breathless.
"Change places with me, don't stop." She comes again only a few minutes later,
riding him hard and rubbing herself with two slick fingertips. That's enough to send him
toppling over the edge as well, the shameless disgusting incredible view of this girl
straddling him, fucking him, fucking her own fingers, arching her back, whining his
name.
He feels drained after, completely exhausted like he could fall asleep in two
seconds flat and never wake up again, but it's a good sort of feeling he's not had in ages.
Empty fucks with anonymous women just don't work any more. Maybe he really is
getting old, maybe he was spoiled by years of monogamy, but it's so much better being
with somebody with a name, a face he'll still remember tomorrow, a sense of humour.
The most unlikely friend in the world, some American kid with a pierced lip and pretty
laugh who studies law and gives him coke.
Of course in the morning she's gone, with all the cash from his wallet and all the
gear she sold him over the last few weeks that hasn't already disappeared up his nose.
Lindsay packs his bags and flies to Japan in the afternoon. He always hated America
anyway.
7.
June 2011
Waking up after a night out is always a struggle, but Pip drank even more than
usual this time so he feels rougher than ever, dry mouth and the threat of a blinding
headache thrumming just behind his skull. He kicked the sheet down in the night but he's
still too hot - fighting sluggishly closer to consciousness, he realises there's another body
pressed up close to his and that isn't helping at all.
"Get off," he tries to say, but it comes out in an incomprehensible mumble. Olly
mumbles something back, just as unclear, and nestles in closer with his arm over Pip's
waist and his face lost somewhere in Pip's messy hair.
He feels lips press gently against the back of his neck, Olly's morning-hard cock
sliding against his arse...
"Oh shit, it's you," Olly says, a sleepy little mutter right against Pip's ear so the
breath tickles and makes him shiver. "Sorry. Serves you right. You shouldn't use girly
shampoo, you smell like one."
"Sorry." He bites his lip to hold back a protest when Olly shifts away a little bit,
trying to resist the urge to follow him and nudge their curves back together like spoons in
a drawer. "Morning glory, innit? Nothing to worry about."
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