Short Stack - Lily Morton
This short story is set after the events in Verbier.
I sit cradling a glass of whisky and staring at the six-foot painting of tropical flowers on my wall. It’s stunning, and the artist is incredibly talented, but that still doesn’t explain why Dylan had been so fascinated with it when he was here. He’d stared at it constantly with an amused look on his face. It also doesn’t explain why I’m examining it so intently now when it’s been on my wall for a couple of years.
I sigh and take a slug of my drink. Actually, the explanation is obvious. Dylan’s always on my fucking mind and this picture has some sort of tenuous connection with him. I rub my fingers into my eyes and enjoy the burn. That tenuous connection may be all I have left with him after Verbier.
I still can’t believe what I’ve done. After maintaining my cool and calm demeanour with him for two whole years, all it took was two hours in a fucking ski bar to ruin that track record. Even worse, my much-vaunted self-control around him has now vanished altogether. It had better come back quickly, because, since our return, it’s been a struggle to even be in the same room with him without jumping on him.
To avoid throwing him down on the sofa in my office and ruining everything, I’d forced myself to offer my help on a case in another department. The head of the project had been astounded by my turning up, but had then just shrugged and bemusedly accepted my assistance. I shake my head at the thought of the last few torturous days. I’ve sat in numerous tedious meetings, attended by windbags who wouldn’t or couldn’t stop fucking talking, and my only entertainment came from picturing Dylan’s face if he’d been there taking notes. That barely concealed humour is actually one of the highlights of my working day, and so many times I’ve said things just to see that pen hesitate on the paper, and his shrewd eyes look at me with their ever-present glint of amusement.
I reach out for the bottle of whisky quickly, because now I’m thinking about his eyes.
Fuck me. Two years of ignoring his snark and sass. Two long years of curling my fingers into fists to avoid touching him when he leant close. Two long years of inhaling the citrus smell of his Tom Ford aftershave, and then having to pretend to have a cold when he’d given me that what the fuck look he really should patent. All that control I’d applauded myself on is now gone, obliterated with just one glance into his eyes in that bar. I’d sat there feeling his warmth against me and, seeing the heat in his eyes, and I’d snapped and reached for him.
I take a slug of my newly replenished whisky and groan because it won’t help. Nothing stops me from remembering how his lips felt soft against mine, his breath scented by the sweet Glühwein. I can’t forget the feel of his broad shoulders and narrow waist under my hands. Not to mention the thrust of his cock in my hand. I groan and push my palm into my now achingly hard cock.
I’m drawn away from my thoughts by the sound of a key in my front door. My eyes narrow. Fucking Fletcher. The door opens, and I can hear a hushed conversation and a snort of laughter. I groan because I know what’s going to happen, and I really don’t want it. He’s brought another man round. I look at my watch. He’ll have been at a club, and this is his conquest, presented to me the way a cat will drag a mouse back to its master to play with.
I shake my head because here is yet another indication of the way Dylan is fucking up my entire life. Previously, I’d have been eager to play with Fletcher and a third. I’d have relished the chance to forget myself in the tight clench of a man’s hole, and the mess of legs and arms and sweat and come. Since Verbier, however, carousing with Fletcher hasn’t interested me at all.
Fletcher is more vacuous than ever, and, sadly, the only thing I really want tonight is Dylan beside me, sassing and taking the piss. I sigh. I’m getting old, that’s what’s wrong with me.
Regardless of any of that bullshit, it’s time for Fletcher to go. He’s shallow and mean. I’d known it the night we