back, flicking a look at Mase.
“Sure,” I called through to my old lady, and again Mase snorted a chuckle.
“Really didn’t put Cutter’s crew down to being so... so...” He looked at Steve, me. “Sweet and pussy-like—”
I crushed a hand into his bollocks, shutting him up. Giving a little smile, I kissed at his cheek, just real gentle like. “Nice mouth. Use it again like that around my folks, I’ll find a way to fuck it shut. Clear?”
Mase tried to double, or stand his ground, one of the two, and took several deep breaths as his hands covered mine, his face red. But he barely risked a look up, and I liked that look on him. Half cowering, averting my gaze, looking over to Steve for help.
“Shush, pet.” I stroked a hand along his cheek. Mase looked damn good like that. He stopped shaking for a moment and glanced up.
Oh, the little fucker. Breathing wasn’t just heavy because it hurt. His dick was semi-hard against my wrist, and Mase pushed his hips in, asking for more. He went to speak, then blushed his gaze to the door as it came open.
“Jack.” My old man came in, tool box automatically going on the table under the bay window. My old lady would give him shit for it later, but for now, it found its usual place. The smell of WD-40 and grease drifted over, and his garage coveralls mapped out his day, job by job. “You?” Blue eyes narrowed in Mase’s direction. He was still doubled even though I’d taken a step back hearing the door go. “You boys okay? You staying in tonight, out of any trouble? I can order a takeaway.”
“You’re already marked for spaghetti bollock—” The typical
spaghetti bollocksnaise
, or
spag bollocks
, nearly came out then, but I curbed the swearing seeing my old man raise a brow. Yeah, I didn’t do swearing around him anymore, not since getting out of juvy, not since hitting him. “Mom’s doing spaghetti Bolognese.”
“Ah.” I got a painful look. “I’m out with you guys tonight, then, okay?” He mumbled something else, then—“How come I pick the only Italian woman who burns spaghetti bollocksnaise?”
I chuckled softly as he finished, then stopped, catching Mase’s glance. I made sure he damn well looked away before I spoke to my old man. “We’re off out to Steve’s,” I said, ignoring the shit by me. He seemed to like that I stumbled around my old folks, always giving that little blush, a flicker of a smile of soft lips. It was going to get him fucked and left for waste by the time Cutter was done with his old man’s warehouse, and it might just be me with how he was fucking about now. He offered nothing in the fight department in my eyes, had no balls that made him worth the fucking. He was too busy being effeminate and not trying to deny his sexuality, but there was a kick to how those eyes pleaded more to pain that made me look twice.
“Jack, I can’t reach this spaghetti myself, love,” came a call from the kitchen, and it earned an eye roll from my old man as he sat down and started tugging off his work boots. “Go on, Jack, help your mother and put the kettle on. Bloody thing broke at work today.”
“Sure,” I mumbled and Steve got his attention as I headed into the kitchen.
“How’s your dad, Ste?” I heard my old man ask. Steve did the odd Saturday morning at my old man’s garage. They’d tried to drag me along since I’d gotten out of juvy. It worked on the odd occasion, but Cutter had a more tempting way of asking me to work on cars, and mostly those that needed encouragement to open up to me.
As conversation filtered through, my old lady stood by the hob, stirring a small frying pan of bolognaise. Give her some dues, it smelt the part tonight, but the little frying pan was full to the brim and escaping over the sides, leaving behind a help me trail that looked like diarrhoea as it tried to crawl to freedom on the hob.
“You ever considered using a bigger pan for that?” I said, flicking a frown at the mess.
“Sure,” I called through to my old lady, and again Mase snorted a chuckle.
“Really didn’t put Cutter’s crew down to being so... so...” He looked at Steve, me. “Sweet and pussy-like—”
I crushed a hand into his bollocks, shutting him up. Giving a little smile, I kissed at his cheek, just real gentle like. “Nice mouth. Use it again like that around my folks, I’ll find a way to fuck it shut. Clear?”
Mase tried to double, or stand his ground, one of the two, and took several deep breaths as his hands covered mine, his face red. But he barely risked a look up, and I liked that look on him. Half cowering, averting my gaze, looking over to Steve for help.
“Shush, pet.” I stroked a hand along his cheek. Mase looked damn good like that. He stopped shaking for a moment and glanced up.
Oh, the little fucker. Breathing wasn’t just heavy because it hurt. His dick was semi-hard against my wrist, and Mase pushed his hips in, asking for more. He went to speak, then blushed his gaze to the door as it came open.
“Jack.” My old man came in, tool box automatically going on the table under the bay window. My old lady would give him shit for it later, but for now, it found its usual place. The smell of WD-40 and grease drifted over, and his garage coveralls mapped out his day, job by job. “You?” Blue eyes narrowed in Mase’s direction. He was still doubled even though I’d taken a step back hearing the door go. “You boys okay? You staying in tonight, out of any trouble? I can order a takeaway.”
“You’re already marked for spaghetti bollock—” The typical
spaghetti bollocksnaise
, or
spag bollocks
, nearly came out then, but I curbed the swearing seeing my old man raise a brow. Yeah, I didn’t do swearing around him anymore, not since getting out of juvy, not since hitting him. “Mom’s doing spaghetti Bolognese.”
“Ah.” I got a painful look. “I’m out with you guys tonight, then, okay?” He mumbled something else, then—“How come I pick the only Italian woman who burns spaghetti bollocksnaise?”
I chuckled softly as he finished, then stopped, catching Mase’s glance. I made sure he damn well looked away before I spoke to my old man. “We’re off out to Steve’s,” I said, ignoring the shit by me. He seemed to like that I stumbled around my old folks, always giving that little blush, a flicker of a smile of soft lips. It was going to get him fucked and left for waste by the time Cutter was done with his old man’s warehouse, and it might just be me with how he was fucking about now. He offered nothing in the fight department in my eyes, had no balls that made him worth the fucking. He was too busy being effeminate and not trying to deny his sexuality, but there was a kick to how those eyes pleaded more to pain that made me look twice.
“Jack, I can’t reach this spaghetti myself, love,” came a call from the kitchen, and it earned an eye roll from my old man as he sat down and started tugging off his work boots. “Go on, Jack, help your mother and put the kettle on. Bloody thing broke at work today.”
“Sure,” I mumbled and Steve got his attention as I headed into the kitchen.
“How’s your dad, Ste?” I heard my old man ask. Steve did the odd Saturday morning at my old man’s garage. They’d tried to drag me along since I’d gotten out of juvy. It worked on the odd occasion, but Cutter had a more tempting way of asking me to work on cars, and mostly those that needed encouragement to open up to me.
As conversation filtered through, my old lady stood by the hob, stirring a small frying pan of bolognaise. Give her some dues, it smelt the part tonight, but the little frying pan was full to the brim and escaping over the sides, leaving behind a help me trail that looked like diarrhoea as it tried to crawl to freedom on the hob.
“You ever considered using a bigger pan for that?” I said, flicking a frown at the mess.
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