The first half of this chapter is Adrian's narrative, mostly with Dan.
The second half has Laura visiting Adrian as the first part of his reward -- anyone not at all interested in her perspective or in heterosexual activity could skip to chapter 6.
_____________
In the office, Izzy is manfully trying not to ask how my date went last night. Eventually I tell her, "We played snooker again. I lost this time."
"So you'll need a rematch?" She's more excited than I am, I swear.
"I think we'll do something else on Friday, though."
"Tomorrow, eh?
Who's
enthusiastic?"
"I'm busy on Saturday! Meeting one of my college friends."
"Uh-
huh
," she says, jumping to all sorts of unmerited conclusions about commitment.
I work until about nine, trying to get ahead of the game. The first two guys' CVs for interviewing look OK, so I hope we'll be able to hire someone soon. A couple drams when I get home, and an early-ish night.
It occurs to me that in twenty-four hours I might have been fucked again. Should I practice first? Find the toys? It's been about a year since that French guy... more, maybe.
Naah. I'll let him have the pleasure of easing me slowly back into it. It'll probably take all of a minute, anyhow.
It's a good thought to slide off to sleep with.
I'm glad I'm not in the office tomorrow.
I get stuck into the day's work, over my new usual breakfast eggs. Aside from avoiding people speculating about my new bloke (there's a phrase I scrub from my mind, sharpish), it's good to have peace; there's mountains of info to read for old and new projects, and I need to prepare our interviews. My mate Stu in the civil service complains he has to ask everyone the same questions every time. I just need to ask each interviewee the same, but each job is different. I call Naz to ask for his ideas.
"Was gonna call ya, boss. Was thinkin, like, I've writ down what I can do, what I want to learn to do, what I don't know anythin about, so's you'd be doing it unless we gets someone... In Excel, like."
"I love ya, man. Giz me your spreadsheet when it's done. Or what you've done, close today. Actually, let me wang you the CVs I've got so far, for your thoughts."
I couldn't have asked for a better wingman than Naz. Another of him would be great -- though then I'd be doing all the fluid mechanics myself, I suppose. He writes decent reports, now, too.
After lunch, I tell Sam I'm ready for the intro meeting with the new clients, and Naz and I are ready for the potentials.
I can hear his smile. "That's good news. Thanks, lads."
I wonder if the finances might have been a bit rough, if we hadn't taken the new client? I'll ask Mike when I see him -- next week, now.
Next week seems a year away.
I get back to it. The specs and limitations for the new project go on for ever.
What seems like a couple hours later, there's a knock on the door. It'll either be her from next door needing something, or John the caretaker bringing up a parcel. So I trot over and answer it, not even bothering to remove my glasses.
It's Dan.
"What...you what?" I ask, like an eejit.
"You said seven o'clock... Are you OK?"
"Er, yeah, sure, sorry, huge bit of work came in. Look, come in, can you just sit down a minute while I shut things down? Be with you in ten?"
"No worries. I'll just prat about on my phone." Smartphones are the best invention ever. The whole internet -- in your pocket!
I go back into my office, move papers around, write my to-do list for Monday --
not
before, that way madness lies -- tell my computer to turn itself off once it's done with yet more bloody updates, and leave it all neat, putting my glasses back in the drawer.
It's only as I'm back in my lounge that I thank fuck I put on decent old jeans this morning, and a plain T-shirt. Dan's made himself a cuppa -- gotta like initiative on a boy -- and offers me one, too.
"Not seen the glasses before. Cute."
"Only need them when I'm staring at the computer too long. Given I'd have sworn it was about four o'clock, I guess that counts."
"Makes you look all distinguished."
"Flattery will get you fucking everywhere." But I smile. He's already got into my pants, and my arse is a sure thing when he wants it.
"You want to order food?"
"Actually, given I've not been out all day, d'ye mind we go elsewhere? My treat."
He shrugs, picks up his jacket. "Lead on."
We get a bus up the main road towards Tower Hill, where there's a wee Moroccan place down a side street. Escaping drizzle into coloured lights and lounging on piles of cushions is grand, as is their mezze, as usual. I just get extra as my main -- love all those wee pastries, but Dan's more of a meat fan and demolishes their lamb tagine with relish. He's on the beer, and notices I'm only drinking ayran.
"Only on the yoghurt? You all right?"
"Oh, aye, I'm grand. Just pacing myself. If I want a couple whiskies later, you get me. That, and it's only just now eight. Want any more of this salad?"
We scrape the platters clean. He eats more than me, so it works. A waiter comes to persuade us of some dessert. We're comfortable and it's still raining heavily, so it doesn't take much effort to convince us to order baklava and coffee.
"Stop eyeing up that hookah." Dan wags a stern finger.
"They do have tobacco in, don't they," I reply sadly. "Shame. They're soothing, if you avoid the sickly-sweet flavours."
"I'm sure you could suck on something at home," he says with a perfect poker face. I wonder if he plays?
"Course I have. General hobby in barracks. I'm no expert, mind, but I didn't lose money too much."
"I've got a few friends... No, don't worry! It's all for chips. Winner gets some comedy present that Laura or Linz find in a charity shop."
"Sounds cool. Sure."
The bitter coffee jerks us out of our sated stupor, and we head back home. It seems natural for Dan to be there, already knowing where to find mugs and all, possibly meeting some of my friends soon. But not too soon. No-how!
As we enter the building, his hand slips down to my arse. I grind a little against it. No-one else is in the stairwell, and we're instantly snogging like teenagers outside the school disco, where no-one can see.
It's fun, but I'm not a teenager, I've got a reasonably luxurious home just upstairs, and I drag him into it.
A well fit lad is a grand occupation for the night, but first I'm having my drinkie. I pick up a tumbler and run my finger along the bottom row. The Glen Moray, that'll do. "There's beers in the fridge," I tell him. He fetches a bottle.
"Cheers."
"Yet another one-night stand," he tells me with a straight face.
"Aye." It's terrifying. "I might just be able to cope, if you distract me."
I knock back the measure -- hence just an average malt -- and try to look as seductive as possible. Shoes off, leg up on the sofa. He's watching. I hold his gaze and start unbuckling my belt, then the top button on my jeans, then run my hand back through my hair. Next, tugging up the T-shirt -- removing the faded baggy thing has to be an improvement, and it being loose makes it easy. It goes on the floor. I may be a tidy creetur but I'm not anal, not that way.
"Keep going," he says. Hint of a smile.
I oblige, pushing my breeks down, hupping my arse out of them, pushing them down my legs, and Dan gets them out of our way. I'm now just in my tiny pants, like in a nightmare where everyone else is clothed, only it's not a nightmare, it's an erotic dream.
"You are a pretty thing, aren't you?"
I want to blurt, 'no, you're the pretty wee thing', but having him objectify me, it's so hot. Makes me feel slutty, too. More than usual, that is.
I rub my cock through my pants, still meeting his eyes.
"Yup, you're gagging for it all right." He shucks off his own top. "So tell me, how do you like being fucked?"
Where do I even start?
"Up me arse with men's cocks!" I growl. "Seriously, I'm easy and experienced -- just slather on loads of lube and I'll be begging for more in any position you want. Trust me."
"Really?" He raises his eyebrows. Cynical bastard. "Well now, that's a bold claim! We'd better test it."
"Best idea you've had all week," I agree. "Get your kit off and let's get to the bedroom!"
"Not right here, over the sofa, then?"
"Condoms and lube are in the bedside table!"
"Gotcha." He's a whirlwind of golden-pink limbs, getting naked, then dragging me to my bed. I've turned the duvet over since he was last here, to hide the wet-patch stain. He rummages in the top drawer, which isn't interesting.
"Next one down."
He pulls out a pump-bottle of Liquid Silk and a box of condoms that some loose squares promptly fall out of. I stock up at saunas on the unusual ones, but good to have plenty of normal rubbers. One doesn't want to look cheap when your life's at stake. Dan picks them all up onto the table-top, and looks in the back of that drawer.
"Oh, interesting."
What else do I have in there? Tubes of lube, tissues... Nancy Friday's book of women's sexual fantasies, nitrile gloves, OK. A bit of rope and a collar... oh, god,
mortifying
...
