The Stopping Place, page 1
The Stopping Place
Lily Morton
Contents
Help Wanted
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Epilogue
Newsletter
Contact Lily
Also By Lily Morton
Blurb
Simeon Frith is recovering from a car accident at his house in Cornwall. He’s a successful man and usually very self-sufficient, but after attempting to open a can of baked beans with a brick, he realises that he needs help. However, he never imagined that putting an advert in the paper for an assistant would result in the gorgeous Ziggy Tuesday sauntering into his life.
The much younger Ziggy is fun and free-spirited, and an attraction quickly grows between them. When they finally sleep together and Ziggy insists that it be completely strings-free, Simeon can’t believe his luck. However, to his horror, he develops unforeseen feelings for the laidback surfer, and he can’t stop them, despite knowing that Ziggy will always leave. It’s what he’s done all his life.
From bestselling author Lily Morton comes a short story about a summer fling that is going to change two men’s lives forever.
This story originally appeared in the third Heart2Heart charity anthology. It has had a new scene and an epilogue added to it.
Text Copyright© Lily Morton 2020
Book cover design by Natasha Snow Designs
www.natashasnowdesigns.com
Professional beta reading and formatting by Leslie Copeland. Editing by Courtney Bassett and M A Hinkle
www.lescourtauthorservices.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
References to real people, events, organizations, establishments, or locations are intended to provide a sense of authenticity and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Please purchase only authorized editions
The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of the following products mentioned in this work of fiction: Vans, Sex Wax, Mercedes, Volkswagen.
All songs, song titles and lyrics mentioned in the novel are the property of the respective songwriters and copyright holders.
Warning
This book contains material that is intended for a mature, adult audience. It contains graphic language, explicit sexual content, and adult situations.
For Leslie
I couldn’t do this without you
“I am no traveller; you are my world.”
Daphne du Maurier
My Cousin Rachel
Help Wanted
SOS Call from Cornwall
Me: Broken right arm and general lack of ability to do anything for myself for a few weeks.
You: Willing to help me with the day-to-day jobs that I can’t manage with one arm. You should enjoy doing up buttons and zippers (in a non-sexual sense) and walking Mick Hucknall. That’s my dog and not the singer. As far as I know, he doesn’t need any help, and he can wait his turn anyway.
Chapter One
I lie on the bed with my legs spread wide as an intense wet heat circles my dick. “Shit,” I gasp out. “That’s so fucking good.” My partner hums, and the vibrations travel down my dick, making my mouth fill with water and my arse clench. “Oh God, do that again,” I pant.
He obeys, and I lift up on my elbows, looking down the length of my body. He’s bending over me with his arse in the air and my cock down his throat. His face is flushed, and the slender length of his own cock is ruddy-tipped and damp with seed. His long blond hair falls down and brushes over my thighs, making the oversensitive skin tingle as if he’s got another pair of hands.
He sucks hard, and I feel the warning tingle in my balls. “Too close,” I groan, and he looks up. The sight of his pink mouth stretched around my cock is almost obscene, and I close my eyes for a second before the sight makes me come. “Shit, Zig, enough, please.” He gives one last gentle suck and pulls off, a glittering trail of saliva following him and linking my cock and his mouth for a brief second.
I haul him back up until he’s kneeling over me, his cock nudging mine and spreading the leaking pre-come from one to the other. I grab the back of his head with my good hand and pull him towards me, taking his mouth with a deep groan. We kiss hungrily, our mouths eating at each other as the scent of musk rises up. When he pulls back, his expression is wrecked and blindly intent.
I grin almost ferally at him. “You want it, Zig? You want my cock?”
He smiles and grabs my dick, and we both moan as he jacks me for a second. When he pulls back, my hips arch towards him, and he grins wickedly at me after sucking my cock juices from his thumb.
“Yum,” he whispers.
I reach round and slap his arse. “Come on. Ride me, Zig.”
He levers off me, all long legs and bobbing cock, and bends over the drawer, gifting me with the sight of his tiny pink hole, glistening with lube from where I fingered him earlier. I reach out and trail my fingers over his arse, tracing the soft hairs and the long lines of him. He shudders and stops for a second, his head thrown back, the hair cascading downwards and tickling my fingers.
I hold my hand out to him. “Give me some lube,” I direct.
He shakes his head. “I don’t need any more,” he says hoarsely. “I’m ready.” He rolls the condom expertly down my dick, giving it a last tug as it snaps gently into place, and I abandon the idea of fingering him. Zig likes it with a tiny bit of pain. Not much, but enough to feel it the next day, he always says.
I draw myself up into a sitting position, resting my back against the headboard. He crawls towards me, sending one long leg over me until he’s sitting in my lap, my cock kissing his channel and his dick snuggled into my stomach. He inhales sharply as it rubs against the hair there.
I pull him down into another kiss, and we tangle our tongues together, panting breaths of air puffing against our faces. When I pull back, he follows my mouth for a second, so I slap his arse again.
“Get on, sweetheart.”
It’s like time stops, as for a long second, we both stop in our tracks, the endearment seeming to ring through the room louder than a peal of bells.
“Simeon?” he says hoarsely, and I launch into action, grabbing the base of my dick and holding it up.
“Heat of the moment,” I mutter. He looks at me intently, so I buck my hips to get him moving. His expression clears immediately, and he takes his cue as easily as if we’re dancing partners. I suppose in a way we are. The problem is that it’s gone beyond dancing for me with Ziggy. We’re so perfectly attuned in bed it’s hard for me to accept that we aren’t that way once we get out.
I throw those thoughts away and groan as he reaches back, spreading his cheeks with his hands, and I feel the first heated kiss as my cockhead touches his tiny hole.
“Go steady,” I warn him hoarsely. “No hurting yourself.”
But impatient as ever, he pushes down, and we both groan at the steady breaching of his passage. It’s slow and so tight that I struggle to remain still as he lowers himself. Finally, my whole cock is encased in heat and dampness, and I can feel the taut globes of his arse on my thighs.
We remain there for a second as he adjusts, and then he leans forward slightly, his elbows on my shoulders and his hands cupping my head as he kisses me slowly and lushly, as if we have all the time in the world. I don’t know how long we kiss for, but when he pulls back, his pupils have expanded so there’s hardly any colour left, and he looks bleary, his cheeks flushed and his chin abraded by my beard.
“You ready?” I pant, unable to prevent my arse clenching and pushing me up and into him.
He jolts, and for a second, bliss flashes over his face. “Oh God, Sim. Yes, like that.”
“You like that?” I gasp and grab his arse cheeks tight so I can push up into him. The cast on my right arm catches on his skin, and he shudders wildly as if tasered; then he starts to move his hips. A light weight in my lap, he undulates sinuously like the ribbon a gymnast uses. His body flows like water across me, and the pleasure is a sharp explosion of colour in my groin.
We fall into the movement, and we’re as synchronised as if someone will be standing at the bottom of the bed with score cards when we finish. I ram up, and he grinds down, reaching over to kiss me. When he does that, his cock rubs against the wet muscles of my abdomen, and he loses track of the kiss, panting into my mouth and making small whining noises that light me up.
“Shit, Zig,” I gasp out, feeling his passage hot and snug around my cock. “It’s so fucking good.”
I groan as he suddenly leans back, his whole body arched gracefully back in a bow, his hands grabbing my thighs behind him and his hair falling down his back in a silky mess as his cock bobs between us, hard and angry looking.
“Oh fuck,” he shouts. “Fuck. Fuck, that’s—mmm …” His words draw away into a decadent groan.
I grab his buttocks and fuck up into him hard, and his words retreat, replaced by hungry mewling cries. I can hear my own staccato grunts in the room, along with the banging of the headboard into the wall and the bedsprings creaking mani
At this angle I’m hitting his prostate dead on, and he increases the ferocity of his movements until he’s bouncing on my dick and crying out.
“Spit,” I gasp, holding out my hand, and he obeys, crying out as I grab hold of his bobbing cock with my good hand and start to jack it. It’s clumsy because I’m not left-handed, but at this point, I don’t think he even notices.
Suddenly, his head comes up, and he stares at me. “Call me that again.”
“What?” My brain appears to be located in my cock, so it’s no surprise that I don’t understand what he’s saying.
“Call me sweetheart again and tell me to come.”
For a long second, we stare at each other, our bodies still moving together in a fierce rhythm as my mind reels at what this could mean. Then I get with the programme and jack him tightly in my fist. “Come, sweetheart,” I say forcefully.
“Ooh, God, I’m going to fucking … Simeon, oh shit,” he gasps. “Ungh!” He throws his head back as creamy jets of come spurt from his cock over my stomach and chest, filling the air with the sharp scent. He rides out his orgasm on my dick, crying out and shaking. When he finally stills, he wriggles and opens his eyes blearily. “You didn’t come?” he says, slurring his words.
“I want to come on your face,” I grunt. I sound almost out of control.
“Oh yes,” he moans, his eyes sparking. “All over me.”
Grabbing the base of the condom, he moves off me slowly, and we groan, him at the emptiness and me because that tender, slow touch has me on the edge.
As soon as the condom leaves me, he levers up and off me, throwing himself down on the bed face up with his hair fanning around him in waves of gold and sand. “Fuck, Sim, come on,” he whimpers, and I crawl over him. I’m sure I look predatory, but I’m too far gone to care. Consumed with the need to mark him in some way, temporary though it will be.
I straddle his chest, and he opens his mouth obediently.
“You want it in there?” I grunt, grabbing my dick and slapping it gently on his lips.
He nods obediently, but his eyes are full of mischief, and despite my desperation to come, he still makes me smile. Right up until he bends his head and takes me down his throat. I cry out, giving a long mournful wail as my cock is seized in a heavenly tugging motion.
I balance myself with my casted arm resting on the headboard behind him as he grips my arse and pulls at me, indicating he wants me to fuck his face. Ziggy always gets off on that—being helpless with a dick in his mouth. I crouch over him, grabbing a handful of his hair so his head falls back, and then I fuck his face, tunnelling down into that hot wetness.
However wonderful it is, though, I can’t last long, and when I feel my balls draw up tight, I pull out, gasping as I leave the hot warmth of him.
“Yes,” he says, slurring his words. “Come on me. Come all fucking over me, Sim.”
I grab my cock clumsily with my left hand and start to work the length, using his spit to ease the way. I’m dimly aware of his hand moving furiously behind me, and I want to tease him about his recovery time, but I’m there, and I shout out as my cock throbs and I start to shoot over him. Creamy strings of it fly out, marking his neck and face and those pretty lips of his. I watch as his face screws up, and I feel drops of liquid hit my upper thigh and buttocks as he comes for a second time.
I lean down and wipe a finger through the come on his cheek, feeding it to him before taking his mouth in a long, slow kiss. I roll off him onto my front, and for a few minutes, there’s nothing but silence. Then I remember how much spunk stings, and, reaching out for a handful of tissues, I wipe his face clean.
He blinks slowly like an owl, and I grab his face gently, pulling him towards me and kissing him softly as I feel the sweat cool on my body with the breeze from the open window. I can feel every inch of my years in the aching muscles of my legs and stomach.
I pull back and lower my face into the pillow, wanting to hide the silly softness I know must be on my face. It’s there more and more lately, and it needs to fuck off before Ziggy sees it and runs for the door. A warmth hits my side, disturbing my thoughts, and I inhale, feeling the weight of his body against mine. His skin is soft and slippery with sweat, and he throws one long hairy leg over my shin as he hugs me tight. I nestle my cheek into the mess of his hair, inhaling salt and coconut. It’s as if he’s brought the beach to my bed.
We stay there for a while. In fact, just long enough for me to regret the moment that he’s going to pull away. He always does, and that’s never changed in the time I’ve known him. This “hugging after sex” thing, however, is different. As is the demand to call him sweetheart. I don’t know whether it’s good or bad for my heart. Strike that. I definitely know.
I tense at the thought, and almost immediately, he pulls away, covering his retreat neatly by reaching for the box of tissues and dabbing at his come on my stomach. I smile as he leans over me. “Thank you,” I mumble. I stare at him intently, but, avoiding my eyes, he gives a sunny grin.
“No problem, Mr. Frith. You know I’m a full-service company. I believe in the customer always being satisfied.”
“I wish you’d stop saying that,” I grumble, watching him get up and walk towards the bathroom, his long blond hair tangled down his back and the muscles in his small bum bunching and releasing. “Makes you sound like an advert for a credit card.” I pause. “Or a tart.”
“I won’t ever kiss you, Mr. Frith,” he shouts. “And you can’t make me. I’m saving my mouth for the man of my dreams.”
“I can’t help feeling that in your head I’m wearing a billowing shirt and staring moodily out to sea,” I say, subsiding into the sheets. I stare idly out of the window, watching the curtains shift lazily in the breeze and hearing the ever-present roar of the surf. I can tell by his determined cheerfulness that we’re not going to discuss what happened during sex, and I sigh, feeling my languid mood start to ebb away. I shake my head and push away the silly soft feelings. It’s just sex, I tell myself. Epic sex, but still just fucking. Don’t spoil it.
Behind me, a toilet flushes, and water runs. I turn, and there he is, walking back towards me. It’s a sight I’d love to photograph if I hadn’t lost the use of my body after the last intense bout of sex. He’s slim, with an almost coltish grace, all long legs and wide shoulders. His face is heart-shaped, with high cheekbones and a lush mouth, and his odd eyes look quizzically at me—one blue, one green. They give him a quirky look, as if he has two people in that one slim body. If he does, both of them are laid-back.
He winks at me with the customary smile on his face. It’s puzzling because I’ve always before found people who smile all the time to be a little unnerving. Like if the circumstances changed and a zombie drug was released, they’d be first in the queue to eat you.
But not him. I’ve found in the last few weeks of knowing him that he has a multitude of smiles that stretch those full lips. I like his quizzical grin, as well as the ones that stretch his mouth in the second after he’s broken out into his lazy laughter. I even like the wry ones when he’s teasing me. But my favourite is the one he has now—relaxed and languorous and quite simply happy. I’ve never met anyone like Ziggy Tuesday, with his capacity to live in the moment.
I met him when my friend had advertised for someone to help me while I recovered from the car accident that had left me with a broken arm and several broken ribs. My friend had advertised in the classified section of an LGBTQ paper, and, despite my reservations about the advert he’d written, I’d gone along with the idea. Mainly because I was desperate by then and had spent a whole evening trying to open a tin of beans. I’d eventually settled for hitting it with a brick, which certainly indicated an unhealthy level of incompetence.
I think back to the interview day and smile.
I shift in my seat, feeling my broken ribs twinge painfully. I give a pained grunt, but the earnest young man in front of me shows no sign of hearing me. Mainly because he’s ruthlessly intent on itemising his CV line by line. I’ve tried to interrupt him twice because I can actually read and I have a copy in front of me, but it’s been to no avail, and now I’m just waiting for the end.
