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| “Since when were you of the pillow-biting persuasion, anyway?” “’M not,” says Tom sulkily, reddening. “But he is. An’ that mouth’s as pretty as any girl’s. Prettier. Anyway, what about you?” “Fair cop. I know what you mean; he’s enough to get a bloke to forget about his nat’ral inclinations for an evening.” Jack sighs. Long and loud. What’s a man to do? Because it’s clear enough to Jack, now, that the Imp’s sent him Tom’s way a-purpose. That he’s doomed, one way or t’other, to give in to these new and intriguing thoughts vis-à-vis his fellow man. And that young Jamie Martingale would be keen enough to be given in to. As it were. On the other hand: Tom’s thinking the same thing, and he’s Jack’s mate. If this Martingale were a girl, well, Jack’d think twice before butting in. Why should this be any different? He should walk away. But he wants to know, now. He glances over to where Martingale’s leaning on a table-top, displaying a sweetly rounded arse to best advantage; and over the lad’s shoulder, two pitchy black eyes are lying in wait for Jack’s gaze. They capture it; hold it. Well: that, right there, is another interesting option. Jack claps Tom on the shoulder and stands. “He’s all yours, mate. I’ve got bigger fish to fry,” he announces, and heads over to the fireplace. Fireplace ahoy! |
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