But I was very much enjoying the fruits of our labours now.

  “Added to the recording of this conversation I’ve just texted to Lysander for safekeeping, and I reckon, combined with the photos, it would be more than enough to fuck up your career. And maybe even get you convicted? Who knows? Do you want to push me and find out? Or make sure I never clap eyes on you ever again?”

  A blustery rain shower met me as I stepped out of the stuffy little café to join the stream of commuters heading back to the suburbs. Fresh and cool, drumming a joyful melody on the black canopy of my umbrella. Sweeping away the grime and detritus of the day as if drawing a line underneath, to make way for a new one. I quickened my pace to the rhythm of it, each stride gaining in confidence as the distance between me and my past lengthened and the gap between my home and Milo decreased. The rain smelled good, too, earthy, indefinable, more of a feeling than a word, like all the scents of London distilled into a single perfume. Adjusting my brolly, I tilted my head up to catch a few cold spatters on my tongue.

  Some days, it felt good to be alive.

  With an awkward jiggle of the key followed by a well-timed shove with my knee, I opened Milo’s front door. Our front door. We probably needed to get it fixed, or at least try easing it with WD40. But I wasn’t in a hurry. The pantomime gave Milo time to drop whatever he was doing and greet me in the hallway. Without fail, every single day. Like I’d been fighting in the trenches for three months, not simply battling commuters on the Tube for an hour. It would never get old.

  “I’m making a green Thai curry from scratch,” he declared, as his arms swooped around my neck. “But I think I may have accidentally discovered the recipe for summoning a malevolent demon instead. Or a creature smelling very close to one.”

  Dropping my briefcase, I took him in my arms, backed him up against one of the peach walls, and kissed him and kissed him and kissed him. Then kissed him some more.

  “Hi, honey, I’m home,” I said, finally giving him his mouth back.

  Smirking, he pushed up against my growing hardness. “And I see you’ve brought a friend with you. Marvellous.”

  I ran my hands over his ridiculous frilly apron, finding the knot at the back and releasing it. Then I ran them over the knot at the front of his even more ridiculous frilly silk kimono. Deliciously warm and naked underneath, as I’d known he would be. Cupping his ridiculously pert little bottom in both hands, I kissed him again, before drawing back. He grinned up at me, hair damp from the shower. His scent was an enticing mix of lemon shower gel and as if he’d had a fight with the spice rack and lost.

  “How did it go?” he asked, a glint of anxiety showing. Not for us and our relationship, solid as an ocean liner. But for me, because he fucking cared for me so much. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. And now I’m even better.” With a thumb, I traced along his jaw and smiled as he leaned into it. “He started out by saying I’ll soon realise I’ve made a monumental error and will go crawling back to him. He ended by hoping to never catch sight of me again for as long as he lives. I hope the poor sod he’s ensnared gives as good as he gets. I almost felt sorry for him.”

  Milo rolled his eyes. “Don’t you dare! Haven’t you ever pondered why you’ve never seen Cav and Satan in the same room together?”

  With agile fingers, he loosened my tie, leaving it flapping around my neck, his happy blue gaze not leaving mine. I remembered the first time I’d looked into those eyes, all those years ago on the first day of uni when my world flipped on its edge.

  Nothing had changed.

  He made a start on the top button of my shirt. Lightly, I teased a finger down the swell of his arse, coming to rest between his buttocks, and then slid farther onto his taint. He hummed in response, rubbing his growing hardness against my thigh, and wrapped a bare leg around me.

  “I think the demon will taste better if we keep him simmering a little longer,” he declared as my finger took advantage of the new position. “Don’t you?”

  As I rubbed over his tight little hole, he chased my damp jacket off my shoulders, making light work of the rest of my shirt buttons. I fumbled for the pocket in his kimono and drew out a sachet of lube. Never knowingly underprepared, my Milo. Putting it to good use, I carried on fingering him lightly. His leg climbed higher around my thigh.

  “The sitting room,” I murmured against his lips and tugged on the flimsy kimono. “You, in my lap.”

  Fucking on the sofa, still dressed in my shirt and tie and with my suit trousers pushed down to my thighs, was wonderfully vulgar. And Milo, straddling me, kimono hanging from his skinny pale frame, that damned barbell glinting in the harsh overhead light, was deliciously slutty. Especially when he shamelessly took over fingering himself. I dissolved into a flustered mess.

  “You getting jealous of my fingers?” he asked breathily.

  “Yeah.” Instinctively, my hips pushed forwards.

  Laughing, he palmed my greedy cock, swirling the wetness around with his fingertip. “I’ve got three in now.” He moaned. “Feels good, Mungs.”

  I loved his expression sliding down onto my slick shaft. I mean, I loved his face whatever he was doing, but the sight of him now, head tipped back, and teeth bared, and his skin so flushed and glowing. And the way he loved it and wasn’t ashamed to show it, owning his body, his sexuality, his fucking horny gay soul. His scrawny thighs spread wide, his knees bent up, and my cock buried so fucking deep I never wanted to pull it out of there.

  Sometimes, when he rode me, I joined in, kissing, and sucking on him, playing with his nipples or pumping his cock. Other times, like now, I just wanted to lay my arms wide along the back of the sofa in a comfy sprawl and enjoy the show. Milo leaned back and fucked himself on me, riding my cock. From the filthy sounds dropping from his exquisite, equally filthy mouth, he was pegging his prostate over and again with my dick and loving every fucking second of it.

  “Feels so good bare, doesn’t it?” he gasped. “Like slippery and… hot and… Christ, when it hits just there it’s… fuck…”

  It looked so good too. I tore my eyes from his face to drink in the sight of my glistening shaft, purple and swollen, pistoning in and out of his stretched hole. In a giddy flush, my orgasm barrelled towards me, curling up from the tips of my toes and down from the roots of my hair, spreading liquid heat through the base of my spine.

  “I’m coming, sweet,” I panted, thrusting up into him.

  Writhing above, Milo chased his own. “Wait for me. I’m so close.”

  He fisted himself urgently in long, determined strokes, the pace matching the speed of our fucking. His blue eyes never left mine. When he came, he groaned, then whispered my name like a charm, over and over, his blown pupils still blazing into mine. His thighs tensed in shuddering waves, and the aftershocks clinched my dick. I joined him, head spinning, body shaking, an uncontrollable gong of an orgasm. As he rode out his own, I unloaded high inside him, over and over.

  And my memories of Cav, and what had gone before, were banished forever.

  CHAPTER 26

  MILO

  Frankie stuck their nose in my face, sniffing me. “Thought I could smell sex for a second. Nope. As usual. Just cocoa. Do you two actually have a sex life, or are you still sitting around in pyjamas scoffing toast?”

  My new boyfriend chuckled, a happy carefree sound. Frankie was going to keep this line of humour up indefinitely. Since Mungo moved back in three weeks ago, we’d barely left the house. Frankie and Lysander’s love language was showy bouquets, smart restaurants, and romantic weekends away. Ours was the opposite: nights in on the sofa in front of shite telly we didn’t watch and glasses of cheap plonk we scarcely drank. Followed by great sex, bringing us so close I barely knew where I ended and Mungo began.

  I was hardly sharing those details with Frankie. And yeah, who cared if sometimes we rounded off the evening with mugs of cocoa and marmalade soldiers?

  “I trim your beard, yes?” Bright-eyed, more animated than I’d ever seen her before, Mrs E wielded a set of beard trimmers I reckoned could double up doing the hedges at Hampton Court.

  Having declined Mrs E.’s offer to sort out his ear hair, which, as far as I could tell, involved waving a blow torch in the general vicinity, Mungo settled into a comfy chair. His hand was still loosely held in mine. To be fair, he’d barely let go of it since he’d moved in. I was not complaining, not one little bit. I brought it to my lips, and Frankie made a gagging sound.

  “You keep well away from that, Mrs E,” I advised. “Beards are the new six pack, didn’t you know? He’s come for a kebab, that’s all.”

  And to stay close to me. To make up for time we lost, to relearn the rhythms of a life we once shared. Lazy Sundays, trips to the supermarket, gossiping with Frankie, cups of sweet tea with the Erdogans. Except now we shared even more. A bed, a portal to whispered conversations in the dead of night. A safe haven to explore our fears, our hopes, our dreams. To remind each other what we had together—and what we could have so easily let slip away. To plan our future together.

  Mungo left after he devoured a kebab, but not before pressing his palm possessively to my throat. He delivered a swoony kiss to my forehead, leaving me whimpering and semi-hard.

  Cue Frankie. “Wow! So masterful!” they whispered, the cheeky fucker, as Mungo retreated. “Was that a present for swallowing? Or for being brave after that magnificent beard sanded the epidermis from both your inner thighs?”

  I rolled my eyes. “No, flower, that was for being such a damned wonderful boyfriend. And very hot lover.” And then, because I couldn’t resist, I preened. “Us hardworking tops deserve plenty of forehead kisses. They’re our reward.”

  Shocking Frankie into silence would never not be satisfying. Unfortunately, it rarely lasted long. “Petal, let me remind you of something. Everyone knows that there isn’t a single gay alive who can parallel park, gift wrap, and top. And, though it pains me to admit, you are extremely proficient at the first two.”

  I pouted. “Noted. But if you cared to check my recently updated LinkedIn bio, flower, you’ll find it now reads, 'elite patent lawyer, double-sided sticky tape dispenser extraordinaire, demon driver, and vers bottom.' Mungo says I’m a natural. He said I top like I was born to it.”

  His actual words had been, sweetheart, you top like you’ve read an instruction manual written in Swahili, and it's fucking adorable, but I wasn’t one to let the truth get in the way of a good story. “And really, Frankie, when you think about it, we should broaden our horizons. Why close ourselves off to only one half of the delicious sodomy experience?”

  “Because pretty fems like you and me play to our strengths, petal. We’re shite at the other half. And I expect your Mungo very much... isn’t?”

  Seeing Mrs E’s back was turned, I couldn’t resist leaning across with a squeal of excitement. “OMG, no. OMG, Frankie. He’s fucking amazing at it.”

  Frankie cackled, rubbing their hands together in glee. “So go on then, deets please. Starting with size.” Their eyes gleamed.

  “For goodness sake, flower.” I pretended affront. “You’re a married person now.”

  They patted my arm. “Don’t be evasive. It doesn’t suit you. And I may be lactose intolerant, but I can still wander down the dairy aisle and look. Come on, spill the beans.”

  We sniggered together like the children we were. “Well, mostly I love him for his personality, you know that. But that gorgeous dick is certainly a bonus.”

  And so a pleasant half hour of nail buffing was filled by outlining my lover's assets and favourably comparing them to every other lover I’d ever encountered.

  “I’ve found my Mr White, Frankie,” I whispered to them, when Mrs E stepped back and declared us beautiful once more. Inexplicable tears welled in my eyes.

  Frankie's hand scrabbled across the divide between the two recliners to squeeze mine. “I know,” they whispered back. “And I’m so overjoyed for you, Milo. For both of you. Like you wouldn’t believe.” There was a pause. “But petal?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m warning you, if you ever, ever say something as fucking cheesy as that again in my presence, I will drown you in Mrs E’s footbath. At the end of the day, after half of Peckham has had their corns sanded in it.”

  A knock at the door later that night sent a scrape of fear down my spine. A Pavlovian reflex, despite lying safe in Mungo’s arms across the sofa. During winter, I couldn’t pretend to be out, not unless I spent three months huddling in a dark room with the curtains closed. A second knock. I immediately recognised my mother’s cadence, as did Mungo.

  He frowned. “We should have talked about this properly, Milo. Like I suggested. It can’t go on.”

  “I know. I was… um… putting it off.”

  For a long moment, he stared at me, lips pursed.

  “Sorry,” I added. “Pretending it wasn’t happening was part of my grand scheme to entice you back.”

  Inhaling deeply, he shook his head. “And you think me knowing your dodgy family was still hounding you would have stopped me?”

  “Not really, no. But I wanted… I…” Cav’s immaculate apartment flashed through my mind. The beautiful food, chic décor, the fucking stinky potpourri. All that balanced against my grubby little secret. “I wanted everything to be perfect for you.”

  Another knock, the same pattern, but louder.

  “She won’t go away,” I said. “They never do. We could always ignore it?”

  The usual inexplicable, hated curls of panic crept around the corners of my affected nonchalance. What if something was really wrong this time? What if my dad was ill? Jason in trouble? My mother in trouble? And why did I care? Why couldn’t I just bloody walk away from the whole grasping lot of them?

  Gently, Mungo pressed a kiss to my temple, then lifted me off him. “I’ll go. And you are perfect for me. The whole package. Including this endless family drama.”

  He stood tall, shoulders braced back. Menacing, if you didn’t know him.

  “There’s some cash under the bread bin,” I offered to his retreating back.

  “We’re not going to need it.”

  “I… Mungo, listen.”

  He turned.

  “We can’t not give them anything. I can’t just hang them out to dry, you know? I can’t… I can’t explain it, but they’re part of me. I need them in my life.”

  “I know. Trust me, I’ll sort it,” he promised.

  While Mungo held a muted conversation at the front door, I reflected on the array of tactics at my disposal to rid myself of my family issues. One: move house, move job, move to a new city. Extreme, but I was nothing if not dramatic. Two: take out a hit on them. Marginally less extreme. Three: photograph our encounters, record our encounters, document our encounters, and then threaten them with legal action. After all, it had worked a dream on Cav. I dismissed it. Such a strategy had maximum impact on people who had a lot to lose. My family had already lost everything.

  I’d never employed a single one of them. And never could.

  Which explains why Mungo plumped for number four: the nuclear option. He invited my mother into the house and made her a blooming cup of tea. If anyone else had tried that bold move, I’d have taken out a hit on them too.

  For the first time in a hell of a long while, I looked at her properly. How often did we ever do that with our parents? See them as the complicated, ageing, grown adults they were, not merely as sexless bodies providing us with sack after sack of emotional baggage? Some people were bad through and through, others had simply been dealt a bad hand. Objectively, Debbie was harmless. An ordinary, worn-out, hard-up, middle-aged woman, of the sort one swayed next to every day on the Tube and barely threw a second glance. Pear-shaped in thin grey leggings, with thin grey roots to match, desperately in need of touching up. A thin-lipped mouth turned down at the corners, where clumps of cheap lipstick collected. A version of my own blue eyes stared back at me, clouded and dull.

  Subjectively, however, her lumpen form embodied every single thing wrong about my childhood: the emotional poverty, the deceit, the unpredictability and perennial disappointments. Unfair, when her only crime was lacking the strength to walk away from an abusive husband.

  “I don’t want her in my house,” I stated from the kitchen doorway, with my arms folded across my chest so she wouldn’t see the trembling of my hands. Her own, with chipped painted fingernails, were wrapped around one of my pretty floral mugs. She stared down at the tea, her features expressionless.

  “I know. But you can’t go on like this, Milo,” replied Mungo evenly, then corrected himself. “We can’t go on like this.”

  Au contraire, I could have kept it up for several lifetimes if it meant avoiding this confrontation. Which probably explained why I’d never managed to move on from the barren wasteland of our family ties. And why, despite having to grow up so fast, I still felt like a helpless child every time she knocked at my door.

  But, from across the kitchen, Mungo’s kind brown eyes emitted the sincere warmth of a log fire on a very cold day. Reminding me I was no longer alone. They shone with a message saying, ‘Believe in me, I’ve got this.” I see you, I know you, I love you.

  So, for once in my life, I said nothing, watching in silence from the doorway.

  Debbie slurped her tea. “You’re back.” She addressed Mungo, stating the blooming obvious. I couldn’t tell whether the news pleased her or not. And why should I care? “He had another fella here while you were away.”

  If she was trying to get a rise out of Mungo, she was seriously wasting her time. He was as relaxed as I’d ever seen him. “Yes. I’m back. For good. And I have a proposal for you.”