It was Jory, yeah—and he hadn’t been kidding about changing his kit.
“Hi, you made good time, then,” Jory called as they drew close.
“Fuck me,” Mal blurted out. “Are you wearing tights?”
Jory was in, like, head-to-toe Lycra: a blue T-shirt that clung to everything—Christ, Mal could see his nips; he was going to fucking dream about those—and black leggings that hugged muscular thighs and made Mal want to climb him like a tree.
He was going to kill Tasha, putting all those thoughts of shagging Jory in his head.
Yeah, right. Cos there was no way he’d ever have come up with the idea on his own . . .
“Oh, ah, yes.” Jory shrugged, looking a bit sheepish. “It’s what I wear when I go climbing. They’re very comfortable to move in.”
“I bet.” Mal would be quite happy to move into them right now, ta very much.
“And they’re less likely to catch on anything. Being close-fitting,” Jory added.
“Yeah, noticed that.” Mal was well proud of his voice for not coming out sounding strangled.
“I, um, brought a spare pair. If you wanted to borrow them. It’s pretty deserted up there—no one would see you change.”
Fuck him dead. “Uh, thanks, but I’ll stick to me jeans, okay?” At least they, and the baggy T-shirt he was wearing loose over them, had some hope of camouflaging the stiffy that was already threatening to put in an appearance. Christ knew if he’d be able to control himself when he got a good look at Jory’s arse in those tights. He’d probably pass out from lack of blood to the brain.
And yeah, wearing Jory’s gear was kind of tempting, but for all the wrong reasons.
“That’s fine. It’s not like we’ll be doing any actual climbing.”
They walked up towards Roscarrock House, then followed the lane on past for several hundred yards. Jory stopped at a lay-by, where there was a gap in the hedge.
“We’ll have to backtrack a bit, but, um, the more direct route goes from Roscarrock House. I doubt it’d improve the evening to run into Bea or Bran.”
As far as Mal was concerned no part of the day was likely to be improved by meeting either of those two, but it probably wouldn’t be polite to say so. “No worries. Told you I was up for being energetic, didn’t I?”
Jory coughed. “Right. Let’s go, then.” He led the way through the hedge.
“Did you bring them torches?” Mal asked after they’d walked a short way back.
“Better. I brought us a couple of headlamps.” Jory stopped, slung his backpack onto the ground, and bent down to rummage inside.
His arse looked every bit as good in those tights as Mal had been picturing.
Fuck my life. Mal squeezed his eyes shut for a long moment, but that just made it worse. It was like Jory’s perfect arse had been printed on the inside of his eyelids. Handy for the spank bank, maybe, but not a lot of help right now.
He opened them quick when Jory spoke again. “I’ve only got one hard hat, so you should take that.”
Mal glared at the yellow hard hat Jory handed him. “Uh-huh. I know what this is about. You want me to be the only one with helmet hair.”
“Believe me, it’s preferable to the other option.” Jory pulled on a headlamp to show him, and Mal had to laugh. The straps flattened his hair in weird places, leaving him with a sort of reverse Mohawk.
“Heh, okay, I’ll believe you. So do I put this on first, or do you fit the lamp to it first, or what?” Mal put the hat on without waiting for an answer, just to see how it felt.
Jory stepped up close to him. “We can do it either way.”
Do it any way you like, mate— Shit. Mal had to stop taking everything as a bloody innuendo. He took a deep breath, as Jory got even closer and reached up to fit the lamp onto his helmet, still on Mal’s head. He’d showered, Mal realised—Jory smelled fresh and clean, with a hint of something posh he couldn’t identify.
His dick started to stiffen, and Mal desperately tried to think unsexy thoughts. Old women in saggy tights who smelled of Germolene. Dev’s farts after they’d had a curry.
Dead bodies on a train track.
Fuck. Mal stepped backwards, breathing hard.
“Mal? Are you okay?”
His stomach threatening a revolt, Mal held his hand up for a mo, then crouched down with his head low until he could speak. “Sorry. Had a . . . flashback thing. Sorry.”
“Oh God.” Jory was down there with him in an instant, kneeling in front of him and holding him lightly by the shoulders. “Sorry. I should have thought—of course you wouldn’t want to go underground—”
“What?” Mal looked up at him, startled. “Nah, mate, it’s good. I mean, underground ain’t the Underground. Like, no trains. That’s the main bit.”
At least, he hoped not. Now Jory had mentioned it, he was starting to worry—for fuck’s sake, if just trying to get rid of a stiffy was going to set him off . . . No. He was good. He stood up, carefully in case he got light-headed, but he was fine. “Come on. You promised me a cave.”
Jory’s leg muscles did wonderful things as he got easily to his feet. Seriously, Mal was going to find out who made those climbing tights and give them a fucking awesome review. “Remember, we can cut it short anytime you like.”
“Gonna give me a safeword and all?”
Yep, one track mind. God, he was so screwed. In the totally nonliteral sense. Fuck his life.
Then again, it seemed to have stopped Jory worrying Mal was about to throw a wobbly any minute now. He was smiling, and a bit pink, but all he said was, “Will red, amber and
