I Am The Wind (6 page)

I can do this thing, take care of him, heal him.

I can make him believe.

After a while, he lifts his head and looks down at me. His eyes are bloodshot, his lashes wet and sticking together. I smile, move a soaked lock of hair, tucking it behind his ear. He studies me, for signs of deception, I’m sure of it, and it seems he finds none because he smiles back, relief bleeding into his features.

I did that. I made that happen.

“We’ll be all right,” I say, cupping his cheek. “Now we’ve got each other we can get through anything. I won’t leave, I promise. I’m not fucking going anywhere.”

“No,” he says, pulling one arm out from under me and stroking my eyebrow with the backs of his fingers. “I have to stop this shit. You can stay—if you really want—but I’m not locking the doors. Well, only at night. But they keys’ll be on the table in the hall, and you can use them whenever you want. I have to trust you.”

“But it’ll be too hard. I hate the thought of you worrying yourself stupid if I walk out to get something from the shop, you know? It won’t feel right, knowing you’re hurting.”

“But you’ll come back. I know that deep down. I just have to teach myself to cope. It’ll be all right, won’t it?”

I nod and shift beneath him. “Come on, get up. I’m getting squashed down here.”

“Sorry. I’m sorry. I—”

“Stop that. It’s okay.”

He lifts off me, watches with fright in his eyes as I walk over to the fire and place the guard in front of it. I look down at the rug, at the lush pile, and smile sadly that the fibres are fluffy and no dirt nestles between them. Poor bastard has a lot to deal with, but he’ll come through.

“Can I see the rest of the house?” I ask.

He nods, gets up off the sofa, and takes the lead out of the living room. He pauses, leaning on the frame, and looks across at the front door. I follow him out, watch him take the security chain and unlatch it. It swings, pendulum-like, before coming to a complete stop. He pushes off the frame and takes a key out of his pocket, twisting it in the bottom deadlock then placing it on the table. He sighs, his shoulders lifting with the intake of breath, then turns to face me.

“It’s okay,” he says.

To himself, I know.

“The kitchen?” I raise my eyebrows, acting as though this is totally normal behaviour. And it is, isn’t it? We just happened to do things arse about face. “I could kill for a cup of tea.”

He glances at me, the look asking whether that was just a random comment or whether I had plans to knife him in the back while he’s filling the kettle.

“I’ll make it,” I say. “Gives me a chance to find out where everything’s kept.”

He smiles, shoulders sagging, though he doesn’t fully relax them.

I get it. I do.

In the kitchen—all modern appliances; I hadn’t expected anything less—I turn the tap and fill the black-and-chrome kettle. Poke about in cupboards for the teabags because he’s gone for the minimalistic approach. No tea, coffee, or sugar caddies here. I find the spoons in the draw under the sink unit and stop myself from turning around to see what he’s doing. I need him to see me casually working away, no tension in my muscles, no jerky movements. If I turn, he’ll probably think I’m keeping tabs on him, waiting for him to let his guard down before I streak out of here as if my arse is on fire.

Tea’s made.
Now
I turn around, a steaming cup in each hand. He’s sitting, folded arms resting on the tabletop, cheek against them. He’s watching me. Damn, he looks so weary, like his tears have worn him the fuck out.

“Here,” I say, passing a cup to him, no idea whether he prefers his tea with milk and sugar but I’d added it all the same. I sit, smile, and have a sip of mine. It’s been ages since I did something for myself, and it didn’t feel weird doing it in someone else’s place either. It’s like I belong here, that this is home.

“Thanks.” He lifts his head as though it’s heavy and takes hold of his cup. “I…I’m sorry. So sorry.”

“Hey, it’s okay. Forget it. I have.” I sip again. Fuck, that’s hot.

He cocks his head. “How can you say that, be like this after what I’ve done?”

“Told you. I’m staying. Not getting rid of me.”

“This is fucked up.” He frowns.

“No,
we’re
fucked up, but who gives a shit?”

He laughs then, shaking his head, and I hope he’s started to let himself believe just a little bit.

“We’ll drink this,” I say, “and then you can show me the rest of the house. Only if you want to, though.”

“I want.”

We drink in silence, watching each other, me taking in the sight of him and how that sight makes me feel, wondering if he’s doing the same thing. It’s like we don’t need words. Both of us have said a lot tonight, possibly more than we’ve ever told anyone before, and now we’re the keepers of one another’s secrets.

It feels good.

With the tea finished, I purposely rise first. He glances up, body immediately going rigid, his eyes clouding with what I can only assume is fear.

“The rest of the house?” I raise my eyebrows again.

Alfie stands, the size of him massive compared to me, and I wonder at how amazing it is that such a big man, one who looks like nothing has ever hurt him, can be a softy inside. He leads the way up an uncarpeted oak staircase—at least I’m guessing it’s oak—and shows me a white-tiled bathroom with a shower to die for. I can see us both in there, wet, washing each other, fucking in the steam.

It’s something to look forward to and beats the hose in the cellar any day.

He opens his bedroom door, and I picture him in that king-size bed all alone, crying nights because his world was a pile of shit and he couldn’t find any way to fix it. I reach out for his hand, relieved when his fingers wrap around mine.

His taste matches mine—funny, that—his cream comforter edged with a border of chocolate brown silk something I’d choose. The pillows look so puffy I could lay my head on them right now and fall asleep in his arms, but I have a plan that recently came to mind, something that could possibly wait, but if we don’t tackle this now we’ll just keep putting it off.

“Bloody nice,” I say. “The whole house is nice. I need to find myself a job if I’m staying here, help pay the mortgage.”

“You don’t need to.” He squeezes my hand. “I earn enough.”

“Yeah, but it isn’t fair. I’ll get some cash-in-hand jobs or something. Saves me the hassle of continually being sacked.” I laugh, knowing I need to face Ted at some point, tell him I know what he’s been doing and that no matter how long he keeps it up, I won’t ever be coming back.

Not that he wants me.

Alfie needs to sort things out too. Maybe find John if he wants to, mend bridges. Perhaps even stand outside his childhood home, remember the times there. That’s all in the future, though. We have something else to do first.

“So, food.” I smile at him. “I don’t know about you, but I haven’t eaten since lunch.”

“Shit. Fuck. I forgot. The time. We talked. I—”

“It doesn’t matter.” I stand on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “Shoes. I need shoes.”

He widens his eyes, takes in a huge breath, and I tighten my hold on his hand.

“We’ll go out to get something. It’s fine. It’ll be all right, I
promise.
”

He spews a ragged breath and turns away, letting go of my hand to walk downstairs. I’m right behind him, stopping in the hallway while he opens a closet door and pulls out my boots. I haven’t seen them in so long I’d forgotten what I’d worn that night when we came back here. But there they are, my black Doc Martins, slightly scuffed but well loved. I take them from him, careful not to look into his eyes, because if I do, I’ll come undone. I’ll bottle it, stay indoors, and that isn’t going to solve anything.

We
have
to go outside.

I slip them on, tie the laces. “Jacket?”

“Oh. Right.” He delves into the closet again, handing me my coat, slipping his on. “Where are we going?”

He sounds frightened.

“You’ll see. Come on.” I pat my pocket—my wallet’s still there, then—and try to remember how much cash I had left after we left The Mason’s. It might not be much, but it’ll be plenty for what I have in mind.

I jerk my head towards the door, let him open it and step outside before I join him on the step. Once he’s locked up, I hold his hand, not giving a fuck about the looks we’ll get from anyone we might see. They’re not important now, they never should have been, and shit, it feels damn fine to be walking with Alfie down the street like this.

We don’t talk—if we did I think he’d let
all
his insecurities spill out—and it might well be better this way. After going down a couple of streets, his hand shaking in mine, I see the place I want to take him. The lights are bright inside, and the scent of salt and vinegar wafts towards us on the cold night air. I lead him across the road and into the fish and chip shop, lean against the counter and smile at the young serving guy.

I clear my throat. “Chips, battered sausage, a big bit of cod and a chicken and mushroom pie. Oh, and a few sachets of tomato sauce. The ones with HP on the front.”

A choked sound comes from Alfie, but I ignore it. If I look at him, the dam will break and I’ll be fit for nothing.

“And I’ll have the same,” I say. “Exactly the same.”

“Open or closed packets?” the guy asks.

“Closed. We’re going home to eat.”

I still don’t look at Alfie. Can’t.

With my free hand I get out my wallet, tug my other from his and sort through the notes inside, pulling out enough to pay. I take the carrier bag from the counter and grab Alfie’s hand.

We walk in silence again, the bag swinging beside me, and Alfie crying softly the whole way home.

Dinner had been a quiet affair, neither of us managing to eat everything I’d ordered, but it didn’t matter. What did was that he’d finally got that meal, that we’d had the first painful outing and I was still here. With him.

We shower separately, as though we’ve lived together for a good while already, and I join him in his bedroom once I’m done. I towel my hair, not that there’s much to towel, and don’t look at him as he rests under the covers. I don’t think I can bear to see what those eyes will tell me.

Not yet.

Hanging the towel over a hook on the back of the door, I walk towards him, not feeling the slightest bit awkward. He’s seen me naked, touched every part of me these past four weeks, so there’s nothing to hide here. Except tonight it’s going to be different. He’s going to be taken care of. He’s going to be the one laying there while I take care of him. He has to understand relationships are give and take by both parties, not give, give, give by one.

I stand beside the bed and look down at him, my heart fucking bursting because shitting hell, he looks so vulnerable despite his size. I see his eyes now, look into them and find a deep well of hurt, worry and need. Lifting the comforter, I peel it back, away from his body so I can see the whole of him. Taking the lead—I’ve got to do this, got to focus on what he needs—I open a bedside drawer to find some lube. There it is, a couple of tubes, and I take one out, unscrewing the lid while looking at him again.

A tentative smile tweaks his lips—lips that shake a bit—and I return it, hoping mine makes me look like I’m full of confidence and not worrying my arse off that this is going to go wrong. I put the lube lid on the bedside and climb between his legs, settling on my haunches.

“I’m going to show you how you make me feel, all right?”

He nods, hands clasped across his belly.

“So you need to relax. Get those hands behind your head or something. Let me do my thing.”

He obeys, watching me all the way, and I busy myself squirting lube into my palm. I press my hands together and rub, warming the fluid, then spread the wetness over the tops of each leg and the skin either side of his sac. Massaging gently, I take my time before I touch his bollocks, knowing how fucking hot that feels when he does it to me. With my fingers spread, my thumbs joined, I span each thigh top and draw down, caressing his arse cleft, skimming his hole then drawing back up. I repeat this several times until his breathing changes from quick, sharp snatches to long, sucking gulps. He’s relaxing, opens his legs wider, and finally, finally he closes his eyes.

He trusts me. Got to with his eyes closed like that. He’s at his most vulnerable now, and I can only imagine the torture he’s going through, wondering if this is the time I’m going to choose to hurt him by walking away.

I couldn’t do it if I tried.

It’s easy to massage the minutes away, dragging my hands up and down, sometimes circling his hole before bringing my hands back up to start the process all over again. His cock, proportioned to match the rest of him, has swollen to a size I know stretches my arsehole and brings me pleasure. I want him inside me, thrusting in and out, his thick head grazing the nub inside me, making cum spurt out of me as he jerks my cock, but that can come later. Plenty of time for that.

“I don’t know how you’re doing this to me, how you’re making me feel like this,” he whispers. “But shit, it feels so fucking good.”

“It’s how you make
me
feel. Good. So good. Wanted. Needed.”

I continue with my touch as he opens his eyes for second to look at me and smile, closing them once again to do what I do—drown in sensation.

He’s ready now, so on the upward stroke I take his cock in both hands, smoothing up and down his length, fucking pleased with myself when he lets out a long moan. I’ve got him, have him experiencing exactly what I wanted him to.

His cock thickens, the vein pulsing against my palm, and I watch what I’m doing. It’s horny as fuck seeing his dick bobbing out of my hands like that. Still fondling him with one hand, I shift from between his legs and settle at his side to give me better access to his crack. Cock in my right fist, I slide my other hand over his bollocks and down, two fingers gliding over the ridge between sac and cleft until the tips brush his hole. Gently, I push one finger inside, feeling his cock swell, seeing his hips rise as he welcomes the intrusion.