Count the Shells (Porthkennack Book 6) by Charlie Cochrane

Author:Charlie Cochrane [Cochrane, Charlie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Riptide Publishing
Published: 2017-10-13T18:30:00+00:00

After a perfunctory attempt at cleaning themselves up, they put out the lamps and lay on the bed, Michael curled into the crook of his lover’s arm. The night breeze from the window gently wafted across bodies which were descending to the plains of normality from ecstatic heights. Harry reached over, groping on the top of the bedside table, evidently trying to find something or other. His hand landed on a silver box, where he must have been looking for a cigarette.

“Fancy one?” Harry asked, once he’d found his goal.

“I’ll share yours, if that’s all right. I hardly smoke these days.”

Harry groped around again, then swore. “I’ll need some light to find a light. Can’t see a thing in here now.”

“Go ahead.” Michael listened to Harry moving round, rustling and rummaging, stubbing his toe and swearing once more before lighting a small candle.

“Thought I’d never find the matches. Somebody hides them, I’m certain.”

“The same person who hides the scissors when you want them.” Michael admired his lover’s frame as the light flickered over it, wondering whether he’d be lucky enough to sample that body another time before he had to return to High Top.

“Every house must have one of them.” Harry slipped back into the bed, offering Michael the cigarette, which he accepted, taking a satisfying pull before returning it. “Thanks.”

Harry took a long drag, blowing a thin stream of smoke towards the ceiling. “Do you still think I’m a glass of clean water? I haven’t gone stale on you?”

“You never could.” Michael snuggled closer, resting his head on Harry’s arm. “I’m grateful to whichever angel decided to put you on the right road at the right time. Our paths might never have crossed, otherwise.”

Harry shrugged. “They might, but not under such strangely fortuitous circumstances. It was a hell of a shock, seeing you there.”

Michael thumped his lover’s chest. “It was a hell of a shock you nearly running us over.”

“Don’t remind me.” Harry pulled on his cigarette, attempting a smoke ring and failing; a sharp tug at Michael’s heart in remembrance of Thomas performing the same action, in similar circumstances, down in the boathouse. Although Thomas’s attempt at smoking—his first and nearly last—had ended up in a violent bout of coughing.

Thomas. Michael had managed partly to put the man out of mind these last few hours, all qualms about making love to Harry and thinking of his brother while doing so having been overcome. But in this blissful postcoital haze, the shade of Thomas seemed to want to make its presence known. Michael reached for the cigarette, taking another drag, but it tasted bitter and unappealing. He swiftly returned it, as though the thing stung his fingers.

“Do you know,” Harry continued, clearly unaware of Michael’s distress, “when I came off my bike and saw you there, I assumed for a moment I’d been killed outright and been transported to heaven.”

Michael chuckled. “Am I so angelically beautiful?”

“Silly sod. No, it was because I thought you were already dead. Somebody told me you’d bought it in France.

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