When Life Gives You Lemons…

Disclaimer: This story is written for an adult audience and contains material unsuitable for minors. Please turn back if you’re not old enough to be here.

The thing was, Paul thought. The thing was, it was, that he didn’t even drink.

Yet the glass seemed to be empty again.

He wobbled his way across the flat to Silas’ well-stocked drinks cabinet. He needed a sensible drink, because he was a sensible person, with a sensible girlfriend, and a sensible job. Silas said he probably had sensible tattooed across his arse, the git. The only thing in his life that wasn’t sensible was his flatmate.

‘Cept he didn’t have a sensible girlfriend any more, did he? And that was Silas’ fault, too.

Sort of.

So, not whiskey, nor that ridiculously expensive French wine, which was probably made by the sort of gnarly-faced vintner who sacrificed his firstborn son to Dionysus, and none of that funny blue stuff with the crystallized beetles floating in it. Just another gin and tonic, like he’d been having all evening.

He slopped ice and a generous measure of gin into his glass, and then splashed tonic over the top. Hadn’t been able to taste the gin in the last one.

No more lemon. Damn, that was the second one he’d finished tonight.

A few seconds stumbling around the kitchen only produced a satsuma. He supposed it was a citrus fruit, but the part of him that had been properly brought up refused to tolerate the idea. He retreated to his chair gloomily.

Bloody Silas. Bloody Laura. Bloody world.

He heard the skitter of his flatmate’s key missing the lock, followed by a few drunken swearwords before the latch clunked open on the third attempt, and sighed, world-weary. Would Silas be alone tonight, or would he be making polite conversation with the latest scorned twink over tea and toast tomorrow morning?

“Evening, Tootles,” Silas boomed, the ridiculous nickname rolling out in that patrician Eton and Balliol drawl of his as if they had taken a wrong turn into a Tardis and landed in the fountain at Brideshead.

“Effning,” Paul said and blinked. That hadn’t been what he was trying to say.

Silas appeared in his line of sight, dark eyebrows raised. Miraculously, he was alone.

“You okay there, mate?”

“Perfectly smashing,” Paul said, with dignity.

Silas blinked at him. “Looks more like perfectly smashed to me, if you don’t mind me saying.”

Paul scowled at him. He thought he might mind, actually. It wasn’t as if Silas was a great advocate of sobriety. Out every bloody night, and who was the one who fetched a glass of water and an aspirin while Silas worshiped the toilet bowl, and who always restocked the medicine cabinet afterward? If Silas hadn’t been so, well, so Silas, he wouldn’t have got away with it.

“You still with me, Toots? Looking a bit under the weather there. Under the weather, I said.”

“I’ve heard it before,” Paul pointed out. He’d been working at the Met Office since he finished his doctorate and moved up to London last year (and for some reason which currently eluded him, in with Silas) and his friends still didn’t understand that he was a scientist and not the next weather girl.

“Spoilsport. Where, one might ask, is the lovely and luscious Laura?”

“Gone,” Paul said, taking a generous gulp. “Departed. Absconded. No more.”

“Eh?” It was at moments like this that he had to remind himself that Silas was not merely six foot something of slinky-hipped, pouty-lipped, dark-skinned temptation but had, when sober at least, an IQ at least as high as his own and the ability to make obscene amounts of money for a company whose very name made anti-capitalist protesters froth at the mouth.

“Decamped,” Paul clarified. “In high-whatchacallit. Dungeon.”

“You can’t have a high dungeon,” Silas said, swaying on his feet as if the only thing holding him up was the tightness of his jeans. “Dungeons are underground.”

Paul was beginning to feel lost. To make it better, he took another sip.

“You dumped her!” Silas exclaimed, looking delighted.

“No,” Paul said, and sank back a little further into his chair.

Silas plumped himself down on the arm of the chair, and squirmed round to stare at him. “She dumped you? Were your book collections incompatible? Planning to run off to Ibiza to sell her body for a record deal? Secretly a man?”

Paul, who had managed to get through three years of undergrad and six more of unlikely friendship without telling Silas he was bi, let the worse slurs on Laura’s character pass. Trying not to catch Silas’ eye, he muttered, “Got her name wrong.”

“Could happen to anyone.”

“It was at a – a very sensitive moment.”

Silas howled with laughter, so hard that he slid off the arm of the chair. Paul, confronted with a lap full of honking flatmate, was inclined to be offended.

Swallowing his laughter, Silas grinned up at him. His mouth was still slick, and his dark eyes were bright with glee. He had obviously been dancing, for his t-shirt was still damp with exertion, and indecently tight.

“Oh, Tootles,” he crowed. “You cad.”

He was very warm, too, Paul thought, clinging to his glass for comfort.

Silas really felt very hot against his thighs. No wonder he never wore pajamas any more. He probably didn’t need them to stay warm. It was probably why he wandered around the flat half-dressed, too, and why he’d spent all that time last weekend rubbing ice cubes across his chest, even though it was the middle of October. Paul couldn’t really blame him for the effect that had had. Silas obviously wasn’t aware of quite how attractive he was.

That really wasn’t a profitable line of thought, given Silas didn’t show any sign of moving. Worried, Paul tried to shift his hips back, which only made Silas loll against him more, still snickering. Thwarted, Paul downed the rest of his drink, hoping fervently for a sudden case of brewer’s droop.

“Whose name was it, then? Becky the Bimbo? Alison with the teeth? That Ibiza girl?”

“She was called Caroline,” Paul said around the glass he had somehow forgotten to remove from his lips, fascinated by its cool press against his mouth. “What is it with you and Ibiza tonight?”

“I hated Ibiza,” Silas said, scowling.

“You were drunk for the entire week. You seemed happy enough.”

Silas’ scowl deepened. “As if you would have noticed.”

“What?” Paul said, baffled. Ten of them had gone out there the summer after their Finals. He’d been with Caroline, then: sweet, earnest Caroline who had dumped him on the plane home in a flood of incoherent tears about his beard, which was bizarre as he had been clean shaven at the time. “What are you on about? Where’s all my gin gone?”

Silas sat up, suddenly frowning a little, and took the glass out of his hand. “Right, how many have you had there, Paul?”

“I ran out of lemon,” Paul confided in him sadly, reaching after the glass.

“That’s probably a good thing,” Silas muttered and rolled off his lap. “You know, mate, this feels like fucking blasphemy, but I’m cutting you off.”

“Off what?”

“Off to beddy-byes,” Silas said brightly. “Up the stairs to Bedfordshire. Time to pass out and ready yourself for one hell of a morning after. Hups-a-daisy now.” He grabbed Paul’s hand and tried to tug him out of the depths of the armchair.

Paul was quite unprepared for it and stumbled forward too fast, straight into Silas, who was none too steady on his own feet. They hit the carpet hard, Silas’ legs spreading as Paul thudded down on his chest, foreheads banging together hard enough that Paul’s vision went white.

When he could see again, the first thing he noticed was how Silas’ hands were cupped around his arse. The second thing he realized was that he was as hard as he had ever been, snuggled between Silas’ thighs.

The third thing was that he wasn’t the only one.

“Oh, thank God,” Silas groaned in his ear, hands tightening and hips rocking up. “Finally.”

It made no sense, because Silas wasn’t interested; he’d always chased the dim and pretty ones. He’d never look at his boring old gawky mathmo best mate, but Silas’ mouth was suddenly on his, hot and demanding. His tongue coaxed Paul’s lips apart and slid in, making Paul’s head spin more than the booze, until all he could possibly do was kiss back desperately, his heart pounding in his chest and his pulse thudding in his ears. Silas gasped against his lips and wrapped his legs around Paul’s hips.

Which was probably why neither of them heard the door open until Laura was halfway into the room.

“-so, really, I’m just bringing your keys back, but if you’re really prepared to make it up to me and move out of this dump, I might consider- oh, my God, I knew it, you bastard!”

Silas tore his mouth away as Paul was still thinking, wait, what, come back, and snarled, “Fuck off. He’s mine now!”

Paul had never heard him be so rude, and he was aware, through the fog of gin, that it probably wasn’t the done thing to get caught rolling around the floor with another man mere hours after breaking up with a girl. Rolling cautiously off Silas, he sat up and said, very carefully, “Hello, Laura.”

She looked so hurt that Paul wished the floor would swallow him up. She’d always been perfectly lovely to him, even if he’d known from the start that she wouldn’t shake his world, and she didn’t deserve this.

He tried to say so, and suddenly became aware of another disadvantage of drinking too much too fast. Pressing his lips closed, he tried will his stomach steady.

“My friends warned me about you,” she snarled at Silas, her pretty mouth twisting miserably. “They told me you’d never let anyone else get close to Paul, but I thought-“

“That you’d poach anyway?” Silas demanded, rolling to his feet. Paul had never seen him like this – he was usually a happy and somewhat slutty drunk. It was horrible to see him so fierce and tense and furious.

“That he was a nice guy who deserved better,” Laura snapped back.

“Hey!” Paul protested, trying to get up. It was a mistake, and his stomach rose faster than he could. He made a vague, hopeless lunge towards the bathroom.

And then, as Laura demanded, poking Silas in the chest, “So, just how long have you been sleeping with him?” Paul heaved the entire contents of his stomach over both their feet.

#

By the time Paul had crawled into bed, Silas had got rid of Laura, with a lot more shouting Paul had tried not to hear through the door. It was all he had been able to do to pull the duvet over his head as the room span giddily around him. His head was too full for comfort: Laura’s fury, Silas’ mouth, the bite of gin and the sting of vomit overlapping in increasingly disturbing ways.

When his door creaked open, a surge of panic went roiling into the mix and he groaned into his pillow. He really wasn’t ready to face Silas, let alone hear one of the little talks the bastard used to shatter over-eager hearts.

The mattress shifted below him, and there was a hand on his back, warm even through the weight of the duvet.

“You still awake under there?”

Paul whimpered, hoping Silas would take the hint and leave him alone to die with dignity. Instead he felt the duvet being tugged away, exposing him to the cruel world.

“You’ll suffocate like that,” Silas informed him, as he tried to drag the pillows over his head instead. “Fuck, Toots, is this why you never drink? Haven’t seen that much vomit since the Maths Society dinner where the curtains caught fire.”

“Fuck off,” Paul muttered into the underside of the pillow, clenching his fists into it so Silas couldn’t steal it too. Did the man have no empathy for abject humiliation?

Actually, remembering some of his more shameless Oxford stunts, probably not.

“Paul.” It was his name, not that bloody nickname, and Silas sounded worried and a little unsure.

Paul let go of the pillow and dragged himself out. Silas was perched on the side of the bed, looking down at him with a strange expression – part amused, part concerned, part something Paul couldn’t work out, not when his head was pounding and his gut aching.

“Head hurt?”

“Not at all,” Paul muttered, closing his eyes on a wince. “Never felt better.”

“Right,” Silas said, chuckling, and slipped an arm around his shoulders.

Paul fought the overwhelming urge to collapse against him and never let go by clenching his fists and locking his shoulders.

“Just sit up a bit, yeah. Right, there you are. Sleep on your side.” He lowered Paul back down onto freshly plumped pillows. “Comfy?”

“Who are you and what have you done with the Silas I know?”

“Must have hit my head,” Silas said brightly. “You know, when you were wrestling me to the floor.”

“Oh, God,” Paul muttered and made another lunge for the duvet.

Silas caught his hands and lifted them to his mouth, pressing a soft kiss to Paul’s knuckles. “Panic in the morning, mate. We’ll sort it out, then.”

“Silas-“

“Paul,” Silas replied, and brushed the next kiss against his mouth. “Go to sleep.”

Heat flushed through him, from lips down to his toes, and made him stutter in protest when Silas stood up and loped away. As he reached the door, he turned and said, mouth sharpening into a grin again, “Paul? She told me whose name you said.”

Oh, fuck, Paul thought, but Silas was pulling the door closed quietly and there was nothing to do but sleep.

#

When he woke up next morning, it was to a twisted stomach, stinging eyes and a head that throbbed in agony when he tried to sit up.

He sank back against his pillows with a groan and remembered, with the vivid horror of sobriety, gasping out Silas’ name into Laura’s hair, and groaned again, for different reasons.

Lying there didn’t make it any better, so he hauled himself out of bed and stumbled across the room. As he walked into the door frame, the next wave of memories hit and he remembered rolling across the floor with Silas, mouths burning against each other.

“Oh, dear fuck,” he let out, and then clapped his hand over his mouth in case Silas heard, because if there was one thing he could not handle right now, it would be facing Silas and trying to apologize for drunkenly groping his arse.

But Silas did not come running, and a moment of listening to the clear, discreet silence of the flat told him that he was alone. The clean pale light through the tall narrow windows meant it was late morning.

Saturday morning, that was, and on a Saturday morning Silas would be down the park, coaching the local kids’ football team, as if hangovers were something that only happened to other people. With a dim lurch of relief, Paul staggered over to the kitchen table. As he got there, he remembered the rest of it: Laura and the vomit and that Silas finally knew.

He dropped his head against the table, whimpering into the grubby tablecloth. When he finally looked up, it was to see a glass of water, stuck with a bright pink post-it note which said Drink me, and a box of aspirin labeled Take me (gently).

He did as he was told, smiling a little, because there was a reason he liked the mad fool, after all. As his headache began to retreat, he stumbled into the kitchen and tugged the fridge open.

The eggs read Scramble me and the bacon Fry me, big boy.

Paul’s stomach roiled, and he retreated warily with the butter. Toast would do, even if he did have to search three cupboards to work out where Silas had hidden the Marmite (“The food of the devil, Tootles! The devil!”).

Toast made a new man of him, and he stumbled off into the shower with his mind almost working again.

He’d met Silas on the second day of Freshers’ Week, when he’d been awoken at two in the morning by a certain moronic champagne-quaffing ex-public schoolboy who had lost the ability to manage stairs right outside Paul’s first floor room. Being an anxious sort, Paul had taken the prat in and tried to sober him up with a mixture of coffee and chocolate Hobnobs. Silas had hugged him gleefully before throwing up in his bin and passing out in his bed.

The next day, just as Paul was threatening to report Silas’ drunken arse to everyone he could think of, Silas had grinned up at him lazily before sweeping him off to eat bagels and ice-cream for breakfast. An hour after that, with Paul only slightly mellowed, he’d been assigned Silas as a tutorial partner.

A week after that, he learned that Silas, despite appearances, was as brilliant as he was ridiculous. From there, their friendship had staggered into something fixed and immutable. Silas dragged Paul away from his books and into mayhem, whether it was streaking through the Fellows’ garden or gatecrashing parties Paul would never have thought of attending. In return, Paul stayed steady, whether he was plotting their escape routes or reminding Silas to pay his bills on time. By now, he trusted that if he ever started to wonder if he was doomed to a life of books and research and stifling quiet, Silas would be there to pull him out of himself, whether it was with a dare or just a ridiculous assertion. And Paul knew Silas, as much as anyone did: knew about the string of boarding schools and glamorous stepmothers (“The clichés, Toots, it’s unbearable!“), the lengths to which Silas would go not to be alone, his love of cooking, just because he needed to feed people, and the way his face stilled and his voice went stiff on the occasions his jet-setting father phoned.

And, yes, he was attracted to the man, of course he was. Silas was pretty much the one who’d made him realize that he was bi. He wasn’t stupid, though. Silas had always been out of his league. Paul had watched him break the hearts of the rich and gorgeous for years now, and he had no illusions about himself. He was tall and awkward, reserved where Silas chased bubbly, controlled rather than uninhibited, dull rather than charming.

He’d slept with other men, in those few years when he was still studying and Silas was here in London, but they had never been enough. Part of him would always be waiting for Silas, but Silas was never going to see him like that.

Except- except Silas had kissed him.

And, yeah, they’d both been drunk, but Silas-

If the data didn’t fit your hypothesis, then you needed a new theory.

So, if he were to take the more peculiar examples of Silas’ recent behavior, the excess nudity in a cold season and the constant small touches and that moment of blazing glee as they rolled across the floor last night, and say from there that Silas did fancy him, did it work? Could it be disproven?

Well, yes, by all the one-night stands Silas had dragged home since Paul moved in.

Except, there was a pattern there too, wasn’t there?

Frowning to himself, Paul made it out of the shower and dragged a pair of clean jeans on before he went to look for his laptop. He’d never really been one for poetry or great flowery declarations (Silas, to him, was a constant, of both types: unchanging no matter the variables, and also wound into the underpinnings of Paul’s life, his own golden ratio), but he could do numbers and he did like a good spreadsheet.

So, if he plotted date against incident, added in his own romantic history, and then generated a graph like so…

And there it was, nine months of emotional confusion set out in little colored crosses. Each time Silas made a move and Paul didn’t notice, Silas then pulled someone else. There were outliers, of course, because this was human emotion, which was naturally untidy, and a secondary pattern where the frequency of one night stands went up whenever Paul himself started seeing someone, but the numbers were undeniable.

Then, as he sat and stared at it, his triumph in a theory well proven faded into a nasty knot of guilt. He’d done this. This was his fault. Silas wasn’t just living for the moment and the thrill, not with that sort of pattern. He was unhappy, and Paul had done it, just by not noticing.

Had he been so secure in his conviction that Silas didn’t care that he’d stopped paying attention? It had always been a safe place to retreat to, the assurance that his feelings were unrequited and so it wasn’t his fault if all his other relationships foundered and failed. And while he’d been idling away, Silas had been trying, in his own way, which never did use words where gestures would do.

Never mind anything else – that made him a pretty shit friend.

And just how far back did the pattern go, he wondered suddenly and sharply. His data was less reliable for past years, now he couldn’t remember the exact dates of every romantic disaster the two of them had survived, but he could reconstruct some of it, surely. He had to know-

The key scraped in the lock, and the front door crunched open, to the normal mutter of obscenities, and Silas called, voice pitched low and amused, “You alive yet, Toots?”

Paul slammed the laptop closed and cleared his throat. “In here.”

Silas strode in, still in his footie kit, and gave a cheerful whistle. “And upright too. Good show.”

“Piss off, you patronizing bastard,” Paul answered instinctively. Silas snorted a laugh, but now Paul was looking he could see the line of tension in his shoulders and, flatteringly, the way that Silas’ gaze lingered on his bare chest. A little ashamed of himself, he added hurriedly, “Not that I don’t appreciate the effort, yeah.”

Silas smiled at him, quick and surprisingly sweet, and said, “Don’t mention it. Nothing you haven’t done a thousand times. I’m going to wash the mud off – any chance of coffee?”

Paul stared at him. He’d been waiting for something more than that. Then, as Silas stretched and turned, he understood. Silas, drunk, would cling to him like a drowning man. Sober, he’d pretend nothing had ever happened, rather than risk scaring Paul away.

If he’d been smooth – if he’d been Silas faced with the latest meaningless lovely – he’d have rolled out something about not needing to shower alone. Instead, he stumbled to his feet and yelped, “Wait!”

Silas turned, and Paul crossed the room in two strides, because he couldn’t let things stay like this a moment longer. He locked his fists in Silas’ football shirt, and dragged him forward into a kiss.

Silas went taut under his hands, but his mouth opened under Paul’s with gratifying eagerness, so Paul kissed him and kissed him and kissed him, eight years’ worth of kisses all in this moment.

When Silas pulled his mouth away, one of them whimpered, and Paul lunged back after his lips, pressing himself against every bit of Silas he could touch.

“Paul,” Silas heaved out, on a shuddering breath. “Paul. Properly, yeah?”

“Properly,” Paul promised. “Actually. Completely.”

“Oh, thank fuck,” Silas said and kissed him again. This time it wasn’t fast and desperate. This time it was slow. This time it was dirty, Silas’ tongue sliding around his, Silas’ hands splaying across his bare back, Silas’ thigh pressing between his. He could feel the hot throb of Silas’ cock against his leg through his jeans, and he let go of Silas’ shirt with a moan. He reached down and cupped Silas’ arse instead, spreading the thin, cool cloth of his shorts tight as he pulled him closer still, dried mud flaking away below his fingers.

“Damn, I’m filthy,” Silas protested, freeing one hand to shove at his own waistband.

“Yeah,” Paul said, and it was meant as agreement, not appreciation, but it came out on a sigh, and Silas cracked into laughter, dropping his face into the crook of Paul’s neck. A moment later, his mouth fastened to the skin there, tongue circling over the pulse, and Paul, who had been trying to get those shorts off, flung his head back and whimpered as heat shot straight from Silas’ mouth to his balls.

Silas took advantage of his distraction to get Paul’s belt undone and shove his jeans down his thighs. Paul just had time to register the cool air on the back of his legs before Silas’ hand curved around his cock, stroking up as Silas hummed in satisfaction.

“Oh, God,” Paul groaned, clawing at Silas’ t-shirt. “Get your own clothes off, you bastard.”

Silas grinned at him, and tightened his grip just slightly on the down stroke. “I’m a bit busy here, mate.” He kissed Paul again, tongue sloppy and graceless as he worked Paul’s cock. Paul gave up and kissed him back, riding his hand with increasing urgency, rutting into the slick curve of Silas’ palm, teeth raking Silas’ lip until he came in a sudden shock of heat.

When his head stopped spinning, Silas had one arm locked around his waist, holding him up, and was panting swearwords into his ear, his other hand jerking himself off, knuckles pressing against Paul’s slack thigh.

“Let me,” Paul gasped and shoved his hand down into Silas’ shorts, twining their fingers together, feeling the slick pre-come coating hard flesh. Three strokes, and Silas was throwing his head back, and splattering hotly into Paul’s hand.

It was Paul’s turn to hold him up, and they swayed wordlessly in the middle of the room for long minutes. Then, as Silas stayed quiet, Paul began to panic.

Then Silas wrapped his other arm around him and dropped his head onto Paul’s shoulder with a slow sigh. Paul hugged him back, resting his cheek against the soft bristle of Silas’ short curls.

“We didn’t even make it to the floor this time,” he said to break the silence.

Silas laughed and then pulled back a little, grimacing. He plucked at his shorts with a grimace. “I really am filthy now.”

“Take them off, then,” Paul said, and had to laugh at the expression on Silas’ face.

“What kind of monster have I created?” Silas muttered and peeled off his top. Paul had been about to snap back, but his words all dried up at the shift of Silas’ chest just inches away. The man was stunning, smooth brown skin over lean muscles. Captivated, Paul reached out and ran his finger around one of Silas’ flat, dark nipples.

Silas froze with his t-shirt over his head and then flung it off in a hurry. “Do that again.”

“Really?” Paul said and dipped his head to kiss it instead. He could have this, after all.

“Yeah,” Silas breathed out, hands catching on Paul’s hips. “Do you think we can get to a bed this time?”

Paul had been considering just dropping to his knees, but a bed sounded good. He pulled away with a last graze of his teeth and pushed Silas gently backwards towards his bedroom, kicking off his jeans on the way.

“I’m seeing a whole new side to you, Tootles,” Silas marveled, his grin brighter and brighter by the moment. “I like it.”

Silas’ bed was massive and strewn with pillows, DVDs and Silas’ laptop, which had always been something Paul had laughed at before. Now he pushed everything to one side, leaning over the bed, ignoring Silas’ low whistle, and then Silas was sliding in against his back, hands roaming as he rolled them onto the bed, darting kisses across Paul’s shoulders. He pressed in close, cock riding against Paul’s crease.

Paul twisted round to tug him into another kiss, and there was no panic in him now. This was him and Silas, so it was natural and a little unlikely and so easy he could barely remember why he’d been so afraid to start it.

The head of Silas’ cock brushed lower, pressing against his hole and sending jitters of pleasure through his belly. Groaning into Silas’ mouth, he pulled away enough to pull the top drawer of the dresser open and rummage for lube and condoms (and, okay, yes, the fact that he knew where Silas kept those should maybe have been a clue that they were more than just flatmates).

Silas caught the lube out of his hand, and a moment later he was tracing slick circles around Paul’s hole, pressing deeper and deeper. Paul, who loved this part of it, the slow, relentless stretch and tease, pressed his hard on against the mattress, desperate for friction, and gasped into his forearm. He had imagined this for so long, and it was only the edge of the condom packet digging into his hand that convinced him it was real.

Silas added a second finger, haste making him clumsier, and Paul rocked his hips in earnest, impaling himself on Silas’ fingers.

Silas nibbled his ear and breathed, on a rough laugh, “Bit eager there, mate? How long has it been?”

“With you?”Paul managed. “Never.”

“Fair play. I’ll shut up now, shall I?” And he twisted his fingers higher, making Paul buck off the bed.

“There, please. Oh, god, Silas, please. Silas!

Silas pulled his fingers out and grabbed Paul’s hip, pulling him over onto his back. Paul got a glimpse of his eyes, wide and amazed, and then Silas was on him again, his mouth sloppy and desperate.

Snarling in frustration, Paul met his kiss, and wrapped his leg around Silas’ hips, pulling him down in clear invitation. Kissing was fine, but right now he wanted to be fucked, before he came too soon.

Silas knelt up, grabbing the condom from Paul’s hand and tore it open on the second attempt. Paul, looking up at him and trying to hold back his orgasm a little longer, was struck again by how gorgeous he was: the clean line of his shoulders, his flat stomach and its brush of curling hair thickening towards his groin, his cock, long and thick-headed, purple-dark and tempting. No wonder he thought he could bed anyone.

But he was here now, with Paul, who couldn’t help smiling up at him.

Silas’ breath caught and he finished rolling the condom on in a hurry, crawling between Paul’s legs. Paul lifted his hips, wadding the duvet up below himself, and then Silas was pushing his thighs apart and pressing slowly into him.

“Yeah,” Paul murmured. “That’s it. Don’t stop.”

Silas was silent, his breathing fast and his head flung back as he thrust forward. His cock, hard and hot, brushed Paul’s prostate, and Paul cried out, dropping back on the pillows. He could feel Silas in every inch of him: driving into his arse, beating behind his heart, making his fingers curl and claw at the sheets. He thrust back, just as hard, just as desperate, grabbing for his own cock as his balls tightened.

It wasn’t until Silas’ eyes flew open, fixing on him in blazing joy, that he realized what he was sobbing out on every thrust.

“Silas! Silas! Silas!

He came so hard his eyes went dark, but he could still feel Silas through it, slamming into him for the last time, his hands tight on Paul’s hips before he sagged down, breath shuddering against Paul’s neck as they clung to each other.

#

Later, still slumped in bed together, the autumn sunlight falling warmly through the window, Silas chuckled against the back of his neck and murmured, “At least you didn’t call me Laura.”

“I never would,” Paul protested, pressing his shoulder back in indignation.

“Good thing too,” Silas agreed, pulling him a little closer.

“Why’s that?”

He was rewarded with another lazy laugh. “Why, Toots, I don’t think I could afford to keep you in lemons.”

Fin

© Amy Durreson 2013

3 Responses to When Life Gives You Lemons…

  1. Pingback: Snow on the Roof, in more than one sense! | Amy Rae Durreson

  2. Namja says:

    Fun and sexy 😀 I was sorry for Laura, but the whole scene with the three of them was pure comedy. Thank you again!

    • amyraenbow says:

      I felt really guilty about her too, but by then I was having so much fun that I managed to get past it. Hopefully her next boyfriend treated her with the respect she deserved.

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