Blowing It (19 page)

“Turn—turn it off,” I begged. “Use your hand.”

Magnus complied, wrestling with the slippery base
of the dildo to shut off the vibe, the movement shoving the toy deeper, past
the point at which I usually stopped.

“Fuck, do that again,” I demanded. “Jesus wept, I
need that. Shove a finger in there, stretch me.”

My eyes rolled to the back of my head as he did as
instructed, gently pushing a single finger in alongside the dildo. It was
enough. Bucking my hips and clenching for all I was worth, I angled the toy
against my prostate and cried out as the orgasm barrelled through me.

I was still convulsing with pleasure when Magnus withdrew
and scrambled to his feet, knelt heavily on the bed, and brought himself off.
The dildo slipped from my body, sending a last shiver through my
hyper-sensitised nerves.

Magnus scooped me up and hugged me fiercely, lube
and spunk squelching between us as he mashed our mouths together and kissed me
breathless. “That… was incredible,” he declared, cradling my head and nuzzling
my jaw. “God, I thought I was going to come just from watching you.”

I preened under the praise and the fervent tone of
his voice. I didn’t doubt for a second he meant every word, even if I wasn’t
sure what he was suggesting was literally possible. I loved that I turned him
on so much, and more, that he didn’t hide his desire from me. He wasn’t the
sort of man who was ashamed of how much he’d liked something once the moment
passed. His enthusiasm made me want to plan for the next time, and the next.

I pulled the dildo out from under my leg and
dropped it to the floor. Maybe I wouldn’t shove it back under the bed where
Magnus had found it, disused and forgotten. He wasn’t exactly under-endowed,
and I was out of practice when it came to penetration. A wicked smile curved my
lips as I rolled over and Magnus snuggled against my back. He already thought I
was incredible. He had no idea what else I could do.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

By the time Tuesday rolled around, I was starting to
get anxious about Max’s threat that if I wasn’t seen somewhere with Becky, he’d
get his own story about us into the papers. As incredulous as I was people
would even care who some barely-known children’s author was dating, I didn’t
doubt Max would concoct something awful, if only to punish me. Resigning myself
to the inevitable, I sent Becky a text, asking if she wanted to meet up the
following day.

She replied with suspicious swiftness. I wanted to
keep my weekday evenings free for Magnus so suggested we have lunch instead of
dinner. After some debate back and forth, we decided to meet in Victoria Park
and picnic, taking advantage of the beautiful weather. A miserly voice in the
back of my head also pointed out that meeting outside would give any lurking
photographer ample opportunity to snap a candid shot, but I pushed the thought
aside. Max said publishing was a game; I had to learn to play it.

To get him off my case, I sent him an email telling
him when and where we’d be meeting, just in case he’d told the truth and Becky
really was clueless about being used. He responded with a terse line warning me
to dress appropriately, and I deleted it before I fired off a sarky response.

Magnus was quiet when I told him about my plans
over the phone that evening. I knew he hated what I was being forced to do as
much as I did, so I didn’t press the matter, but it felt important to keep him
informed. Not that I thought for a moment he didn’t trust me, but I didn’t want
to leave him out any more than I absolutely had to.

Wednesday dawned bright and clear, already warm by
the time my alarm went off at ten in the morning. I showered and shaved, and
drank a leisurely cup of coffee, letting my naked skin dry naturally in the
mild breeze blowing in through the open doors to my balcony. At eleven thirty I
dressed in a pair of loose-legged jeans, worn at the knee, my most battered and
comfortable Converse, and a tight T-shirt with the Rolling Stones’ open-mouthed
logo emblazoned across the chest. A light jacket covered my arms and would
double as a blanket if the grass was damp. Pushing my aviator sunglasses on top
of my head, I grabbed the pre-packaged sandwiches and bottles of cloudy lemonade
I’d picked up at a supermarket the previous day, threw them in a backpack, and set
off.

Victoria Park was only a fifteen-minute walk from
my flat, and I arrived at the Regent’s Canal entrance five minutes before our
appointed meeting time. Taking a seat on a modern, black metal bench, which was
supposed to have some sort of sympathy with the gorgeous wrought iron of the
imposing entrance gates but missed by a country mile, I resigned myself to
playing
Temple Run
on my phone until Becky arrived.

Ten minutes later a cab pulled up and she emerged,
looking lovely in a pale green skirt which hugged her hips and flared just
above the knee, the hem swishing around her calves with each step, and a
wraparound white top of some thin, gauzy material which promised to show everything
while revealing nothing. A large leather handbag hung at her waist.

“I feel so underdressed!” I complained, rising and
accepting her greeting of a kiss on each cheek. She smelled of a perfume I
didn’t recognise, high floral notes and fresh citrus.

“You look great,” she assured me, smiling. “I think
I overdressed.”

“You’re putting me to shame.” I mock pouted until
she laughed, linked my arm, and led me into the park.

We wandered slowly along the walkway, and I was
pleased to note she’d opted for sensible ballet pumps over anything with a
heel. Victoria Park was large and beautiful, with several points of interest I
resolved to show her when she admitted she’d never been. “You can be my London
tour guide,” she’d joked at The Ivy, but the idea wasn’t so outlandish. It had
taken me months to start finding my way in the city, much longer before I began
to feel at home. There was so much to see, it could become overwhelming.

We strolled south along the canal side, then took
the Black Walk by the north bank of the boating lake, pausing to admire the way
the sunlight sparkled in the water of the fountains and played over the curved
granite statues rising from the lake’s surface opposite the pavilion, their
sinuous shapes reminiscent of dancers in motion. The area was blessedly free of
children, the school summer holidays not having started yet, but we continued down
the path, looking for somewhere quieter to stop and eat.

Beyond the lake, the park opened out, acres upon
acres of manicured lawns and meandering paths dotted with little pieces of
London history—an obelisk erected in remembrance of the dead from the First
World War; a Victorian drinking fountain, gorgeously ornate; two stone arches
from the old London Bridge, now encircling benches where the pretentious could
pose with the right novel in hand.

Opposite a bandstand we stepped off the path and
crossed the open lawns until we found a patch suitably far removed from the
handful of other patrons enjoying the sunny day. I shrugged off my jacket and
spread it on the ground, insisting Becky use it rather than risk getting grass
stains on her skirt. Unpacking the sandwiches, I offered her first choice
between ham and pickle and chicken salad.

She chose the chicken, and while I opened the
lemonade, she produced two individual-sized bags of vegetable crisps from her
bag, along with a pot of hummus and another containing carrots, celery, and
bell peppers cut into long strips for dipping. We people-watched as we ate, and
I narrowed my eyes when I saw a man standing in the shade of the trees at the
edge of the lawn, an expensive-looking camera hung on a strap around his neck.
Innocuous tourist, or a photographer Max had tipped off? I didn’t know, and
suddenly realised I didn’t want to, either.

My sandwich tasted too dry, the bread sticking to
my palate in a cloying lump. I worked it free with my tongue as subtly as I
could and tried not to choke as I swallowed.

“Everything okay?” Becky put down her sandwich and
looked at me. “You’re quiet today.”

“I don’t want to be reading my words in the
newspaper tomorrow.”

“What?” She frowned in confusion. “What newspaper?”

“Whichever one you and Max decided to talk to.” I
set down my lunch. “I’m here, isn’t that enough?”

“What are you talking about?” A thread of irritation
wound its way around her words. “You asked me if I wanted to have lunch.”

“Don’t play coy, Becky. I know what you’re up to.
Max told me.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She
drew herself up stiffly. “If you don’t want to be here, then why didn’t you say
so?”

“I thought we were friends.”

“I thought so, too. What’s changed? What do you
mean about Max? What has he said?”

“Nothing. Forget it.”

“No.” She sounded annoyed now. “Don’t throw
something like that at me and tell me to forget about it. What did you mean,
Owen?”

I looked at her. She certainly
seemed
genuine, but then maybe she was just a good actress. “You’re my pretend
girlfriend,” I said. “Didn’t you know?”

She recoiled, eyebrows rising with surprise. Then
she burst out laughing. “I’m
what
?”

“You’re my beard. My cover. The only reason Max
sent us to The Ivy was so we’d be photographed together.”

Her expression cleared. “You’re serious.”

“Don’t tell me you didn’t know!”

“Of course I didn’t know!” she replied hotly. “Max
said he wanted me to talk to you because he wanted me to sign with Cardwell. He
said
nothing
about pretending to be your girlfriend!”

“Like you’d tell me even if he did,” I sneered, not
ready yet to let go of my suspicions.

“Do you honestly think I’d agree to something so…
so…
underhand
?” Her affront reached new heights before my eyes. “I’m
trying to make it in this business, the same as you. Do you think I want to get
a reputation before I’ve even been published?”

“I—”

“How do you think it’s going to reflect on
me
if people think we’re together when I just signed with your agency? Oh my god,
what if everyone assumes that’s how I got the contract? What if they think I’m
trying to sleep my way to the top?” Her eyes widened, and she looked genuinely appalled.
“Owen, they can’t do this!”

I sighed. “They already have. Didn’t you see the
picture in the
Metro
?”

 “I don’t read it,” she admitted. “I don’t take the
tube if I can help it, so I never get a copy.”

“We were in the gossip section,” I told her.
“Standing outside The Ivy. I was kissing your cheek.”

She frowned. “They’re trying to imply something
from that?”

“I think the byline mentioned something about an
‘intimate dinner with a female companion.’ Did you honestly not know?”

“Cross my heart.” She accompanied her words with the
gesture. “Did Max say I did?”

“No,” I admitted. “But I wasn’t sure I believed
him.”

“I wish you’d spoken to me straight away,” she said
reproachfully. “Christ, Owen, I signed with them!”

“I know. I’m sorry. By the time I realised what he
was doing, it was too late anyway.”

“Shit.” Her shoulders slumped, all the air knocked
out of her. “What do we do now?”

“I don’t think there’s anything we
can
do,”
I admitted.

“Bullshit. There’s always
something.
You
can’t just be ready to roll over and accept it.”

“Of course I’m not,” I snapped. “You think I’m
happy about this? I thought we got along last week. I don’t tell just anyone
the things I told you.”

“And I haven’t breathed a word to anybody,” she
retorted.

 “I had a huge fight with Magnus. We’d never fought
about anything before.” I sagged miserably. “It makes me feel so…
helpless.
I’ve
been out since I was fourteen. I
can’t
go back to hiding who I am all
over again. It nearly killed me the first time.”

Becky squeezed my hand. “I don’t know what to say,”
she admitted. “I swear to you, Owen, I had nothing to do with this.”

I found myself believing her. She’d seemed so
genuine when we’d had dinner, and there was nothing in her current affect to
make me think differently now. This was all Max’s doing.

“Are you and Magnus okay?” she asked tentatively.

I nodded. “I think so. He understands I don’t have
a choice. That doesn’t mean he likes it any more than I do.”

“I’m not surprised. I’d hate it if it was my
boyfriend pretending to be seeing someone else.”

“You’re dating?”

“No. Not right now. I split with my last boyfriend
before I moved to London.”

“What was he like?”

“Joe?” She laughed. “Fun. We had a great time
together. But immature. He wasn’t ready to settle down, and I couldn’t imagine
trying to make him.” She shuddered delicately. “It ran its course, and I got
out before either of us made the mistake of thinking we had to get serious.”

“Sounds sensible.”

“What’s Magnus like?”

My smile was involuntary. “He’s great.”

“What does he do?”

I told her a little of Magnus’s background, his job,
and how we met. “He’s not like anyone I’ve ever dated before,” I continued. “He’s….
I don’t know. Stable. He accepts me for who I am. Doesn’t push me into doing
things I don’t want. It feels like we’re on the same page.”

“He sounds wonderful.” Becky sighed dreamily. “Why
are all the good men gay?”

I laughed. “I don’t think there’s any right way for
me to answer that.”

“No, probably not.” She smiled. Tucking a strand of
hair behind her ear, she took a delicate sip of lemonade. “I’m pleased for you,
that you’ve found someone who sounds right for you.”

“Thanks. I just don’t want this crap with Max to
fuck it up. He says he understands, but I know he was gutted when he found out
I’ve got to take you to the Carnegie ceremony.”

She almost choked on the lemonade. “You’re doing
what
?”

“Oh, yeah. It’s a week on Monday. Max says we have
to go together.”

“And what if I had plans?” she asked, bristling
like a Mills & Boon heroine.

“He’ll probably remind you you’re under contract.”

She took a deeper swig of lemonade and grimaced as
she swallowed. “I don’t remember signing my whole life over to him. You bloody
warned me, too. I should have listened.”

“I had no idea he’d do this to you. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.” She patted my hand. “Looks
like we’re both in this together.”

“Still, it’s good publicity,” I offered, although
it seemed a paltry trade-off for free will. “You get to meet and greet with the
best in our genre.”

“Who do you think will be there?” she asked,
immediately perking up.

“I know Anne Fine and William Sutcliffe are on the
shortlist,” I said. “I’m sure there are others. I’ve been trying to avoid it,
to be honest.”

“Owen!” She slapped my arm playfully. “Why are you
avoiding it? Oh my god if I was up for the Carnegie, I’d just
die
.”

“That’s why,” I said, laughing. “I can’t think
about it. I just can’t. It’s too big.”

“I bet Magnus does,” she said, giving me a sly
smile.

“Magnus tells me he’s convinced I’ll win. But he
has to say that, so I take it with a pinch of salt.”

“And he can’t go with you.” Her face fell. “That
sucks.”

“It really does,” I agreed.

She pulled a daisy out of the ground and began to
pluck each petal off individually.

“Does he love you?” I asked when she reached the
last petal, referring to a game I hadn’t played since childhood.
He loves
me, he loves me not.

She looked at the remains of the flower. “I wasn’t
counting.”

“What were you doing, then?”

“Thinking.” She discarded the daisy and brushed the
pink-tipped petals off her lap, frowning slightly. “I know you really want
Magnus with you, but if he can’t go…. It doesn’t have to be such a bad thing,
does it? Taking me instead.”