For Real (Spires, #3)

by Alexis Hall

I reach out and touch the damp corners of his eyes. “Are you all right?” “Yes, darling. Pure physical relief.” “Okay, good. Because it’s really hot.” He laughs, blinking moisture from his lashes. “You depraved little monster.” “Yeah.” I wriggle in and kiss him, first on the mouth, then on his closing eyes, tasting salt. “Your depraved little monster.”

He needed someone his own age, or close to it, to share his life as it unfurled before him, as Robert had once shared mine.

Ffs ur 37 not 80

“I want to give him everything, and the things I can’t give, I want him to take.” He’s my prince. Fierce and fragile and tender and cruel. But, of course, I couldn’t say that aloud. So I cleared my throat into yet another silence. “Come on, then, take the piss. What are you waiting for?” Sam held up his hands. “I got nuthin’. That was beautiful.” “Oh shut up.” “I’m serious. If it works for you, then it works.”

“But if he’s in love with you anyway—” “Thinks he’s in love with me.” “I’m not trying to start a debate about phenomenology,” put in Sam, “but is there a difference?”

My friends were not my allies. That was probably why they were friends.

“It’s obvious you like him back. It’s kind of cute actually. And if you don’t want to call it love, that’s fine, but if he does, that’s fine too.”

“Fuck wise.” He stepped close to me, this bundle of bones and nerves, skin and ferocity, reached up, and slid a hand round the back of my neck. It was as sure as a collar, as undeniable as steel and leather. He could so easily have brought me to my knees, but all he did was draw our mouths together. “You promised you wouldn’t do this again, but you’re still doing it. You’re just doing it a different way. So stop pretending I could just walk away and it wouldn’t mean anything to you. Stop pretending it’s all about me and what I want. Stop pretending this isn’t real. Just stop fucking pretending. Because you’re here too.” His eyes burned into mine. “You’re here too.” I stared at him, held by nothing but the lightest of touches and the brush of his breath, captive, as I’d been all along. “I’m here too,” I whispered.

“And I love you, okay? So you’d better get used to it.” “Toby, you can’t—” “Nonnegotiable.” He curled his fingers, his nails pressing star-bright crescents into my skin. “You don’t have to say it back, but it’s how I feel, and I’m not going to lie about it or pretend it isn’t there. I love you.”

“Anything. Anything you want.” “Everything.” Sweet, greedy, impossible princeling, he could have me. Because, truthfully, he already did.

mind.” I sat down on the floor at his feet, propped an elbow on one of the sofa cushions, and rested my head against it, which allowed me to look up at Toby as he sorted through takeaway menus. It wasn’t a particularly, or intentionally, submissive act. It was simply where I wanted to be right then.

“Is there anything you do like without making it really complicated?” I smiled up at him, soothed and absurd and undone. “I like you.” He went a little pink. “Now you’re just avoiding the question.”

“Would you, if I wanted?” I groaned, unable to easily articulate or understand the complexities of my reaction. “I . . . I don’t know. I’ve never done that with anyone. I don’t think I’d like it at all, but there’s part of me that stirs to . . . to . . . do something I hated that much for you.”

“You know you can do anything you like with me.” “Yeah, I do.” He grinned. “That’s why I’ve got to make it count.”

Pain was simply an inevitability of living, and I had to learn how to trust him with his own, as I trusted him with mine.

“But aren’t there like secondary explosions and stuff when bombs go off?” “Sometimes.” “And you went down there anyway?” “It’s my job. I was probably terrified, but I didn’t really think about it.” “You’re one of my favourite people in the universe.” He nuzzled under my chin like an overly enthusiastic, slightly amorous cat. “And you totally blow my mind sometimes.”

“What’s in the Bluebeard room?” I should have expected it—he never let anything go—but, nevertheless, the question hit me hard enough to make the blood roar in my ears. “Nothing. I mean, almost nothing. Just some relics. It’s mostly empty.” He propped his chin on his hand and eyed me slyly. “Mostly empty except for a single rose in a glass case, wilting slowly, petal by petal, and, like, waiting for you to learn to love again.”

I sat on top of the chest. Too late, Pandora.

“Laurie?” “Yes, darling?” “Will you come back? I don’t have a fucking clue about any of this.” Which was how I ended up sitting on the floor with Toby, surrounded by sex toys like the most depraved Christmas morning imaginable.

In the rush to console him for my carelessness, I’d stumbled over a piece of truth that was fundamental to me, held so deep in my heart I’d forgotten it was there. On instinct alone, I’d tried to give it to Toby, and instead given it back to myself. It’s not what you do, it’s what it means.

“I take it you’ve never used a flogger before?” He shrugged. “What can I say? Comprehensive school. Just wasn’t on the curriculum.”

I suppose it comes down to whether you think dominance and submission are about acts or about people.”

Toby was wriggling into his jeans, an activity that took a while and tended to be diverting.

“You don’t want to come to a college dinner,” was my instinctive answer. “With you? I totally do.” I gazed up at him and offered rather pleadingly, “It’ll be boring, Toby.” “‘It’ll be boring, Toby,’ or—” he glared “—‘I’m ashamed of you, Toby’?” “God, I’m not ashamed of you. If I’m ashamed of anyone, it’s me.” He put his hands on his hips, like a very small but very determined fishwife. “That doesn’t help. I don’t want you ashamed of anybody.

“Y’know,” said Toby, as we got ourselves settled on the train, “I’ve literally never travelled first-class ever.” “Well, it’s hardly the Orient Express.” “No, but there’s leg room, arse room, and a table. Which—” he frowned “—now I think about it are pretty basic facilities.” “Yes, first class isn’t so much about extravagance as not being completely miserable.” He grinned at me over our decadent table. “All the same, I’m still excited.” “They’ll probably bring you a complimentary cup of tea in a bit.” “High life here I come.”

“Aww, man.” Toby’s tone was strangely exasperated. “What’s that supposed to mean?” “It means I fucking love you.” “Thank you.” He snorted. “That’s slightly better than ‘all right’ . . . so improving steadily.” “Well, what do you expect me to say?” “‘I love you too, Toby’ is kinda traditional. Would be nice.” “You can’t nag someone into falling in love with you.” He gave a sad little smile. “Yeah, I noticed.”

He went up on tiptoes, leaning into me, and inhaling deeply against my neck, before I pushed him away in case we got spotted canoodling like teenagers in the middle of Debenhams.

“You can make it up to me later.” Oh God. “I mean, not in a prostitute way.” “I wouldn’t mind.” His eyes shone like the bottles that surrounded us. “It’s kind of hot, actually.” “I’m ignoring you now and going to pay for this.” He sidled up too close, his hip knocking against me. “So, am I like your kept boy?” “Stop it, Toby.”

He was shouting, now, in Radcliffe Square, his free arm windmilling wildly. To be honest, it was probably the place to do it. A student standing by the railing and smoking a cigarette with an air of artistic panic barely gave us a second glance.

“Fuck you.” The anger faded from his voice, leaving only pain. “You believed in me. At that club, you believed in me. The only person who’s ever. And you didn’t laugh, and you didn’t judge. You just got on your knees, and it’s the most romantic thing that’s—” I dropped everything except the cologne, and that was only because I was afraid it would break. But my bag, my suit, the jacket I’d had on my arm because it had been hot in Debenhams—all went tumbling to the ground. Then I dragged Toby into the mess, wrapped him up tight, and kissed him with everything. When I finally gave him his mouth back, he went on without missing a beat. “—the second most romantic thing that’s ever happened to me.” And then he smiled his smallest smile, the secret one, the one with all his pain in it.

“It’s where some of the most important things of my life happened to me. I grew up here. Learned who I was here. It’s where I first fell in love. Had sex. Got drunk. Took drugs. Stayed up all night talking with people who understood me.” “Jesus.” Toby was staring again. The last sunlight of the day was spilling down the stonework and across the pristine lawn. “This is so beautiful it hurts. I’m never going to have any of this stuff, am I?” “Oxford?” “Everything you said.”

I hesitated because I always did. A different dom would have snapped at me, or forced me, but Toby never did. He never made it easy. He made me choose. Made me choose submission. The quiet humiliation of doing something simply because he had told me to.

Half-naked always felt so much more naked than naked.

I was gorgeous. He loved me. It was okay. And I believed him.

I glared down at him. “Not remotely. I’m manipulated . . . violated . . . mortified—” “Now you’re just trying to turn me on.” Trying? I followed the hectic flush as it slipped down his throat and under the wing collar of his dress shirt. “Oh, yes. I’m not going to suffer alone.” “I might’ve—” he choked on an indrawn breath “—misjudged this.”

Laurie isn’t saying anything. I try to catch his eye, and when I do, he mouths, Who are you? at me. I mouth back, Yours.

This This just makes me very gloriously happy Because a big ugly thing could have happened here And it just Didnt

“I used to want to be a poet, okay?” “What changed your mind?” I’m kind of losing track of who’s looking and who’s talking. I shrug. “I like poetry too much.”

“You like your verses rather rough and rugged.” “Like I like my men.” Laurie chokes.

“But he dropped you, Laurie.” “So? His horrible aunt once called me unnatural at a family dinner party. He dropped me then, as well, when he laughed it off.” She frowned. “It’s not the same, though.” “Isn’t it? It’s just love and trust.

“So what do I get when my next family member dies?” “I ask you to marry me.” “That’s so not funny.” It wasn’t, but it was, the way only terrible things can be sometimes.

“Do I just leave you to it?” I asked, once we’d unpacked and my kitchen work surfaces were covered with purchases. The look he gave me was downright wicked. Downright terrifying. “No way. You’re totally going to be part of this process.” “In a . . . loading-the-dishwasher capacity?”

“Now I just need to grab some things from upstairs.” “For the pie?” “For you. Give me like . . . five minutes. And—” he flashed his toothiest grin “—take your clothes off.” I froze. “When you said you wanted a lemon meringue pie and filthy sex, I didn’t think you meant together.” “That’s what you get for underestimating me.”

He held out his hands to me, the Gates of Hell in one, the anal hook in the other, and grinned again. “Choose.” That was easy. I pointed at the Gates of Hell. “Cool.” He threw them back into the pile. For a moment I groped after meaning, and then I understood, and then I groaned. “You mind-fucking little bastard.”

I wanted him to have me, to have everything, my pleasure, my pain, my pride, and my shame. I wanted to lay it all at his feet until we were both free, until I was his and he was mine, and everything else was tatters.

And it turned out I was thirsty—which probably shouldn’t have been surprising, but there was something a little startling about being given exactly what you needed before even recognising you needed it.

“We’ve been promised,” Grace said, “that you had sex in the vicinity of this pie, involving only the components of the pie, and not the pie itself. So we’ve consented to eat it. Though apparently we have to wait awhile until it’s cooled.”

And right now, he seemed excited to be here, though his burgeoning friendship with Grace was likely to prove dangerous for me. Not because I had any real cause for jealousy, but because she tended to be . . . inspiring.

“Are you going to have your own restaurant some day?” and what I say is, “Yes.” And then I’m completely terrified. Because once you’ve thought something like that, or said it, all you’ve done is given yourself something to fail at.

It amuses me in a way—because it’s a bit daft, deliberately choosing to have your lunch at 11:45 every day—but it sort of makes me sentimental too, the way people will structure their lives around the stuff they feel is important.

“Hey, maybe he’s not a cradle snatcher. Maybe I’m a grave robber.” In the explosion of laughter that follows, Laurie puts his arm around my shoulders. “Toby, darling, please stop helping me.”

“I tried to provide solutions when I should have listened. And let things go when I should have fought.”