I sense him sitting up slightly to look down at me.
‘Oh babe,’ he says, then his head falls back on the pillow with a resounding flump.
I make noises of murmuring delight around his helpless cock and start to milk it for all it’s worth, taking hold of the sac below and massaging it as I work.
Lloyd wants to say things but he can’t. It’s delicious to hear him shudder and struggle with speech, then give up.
He’s fully erect, velvety steel in my mouth, and I stretch my jaw to accommodate him, work at loosening my throat to take him all the way in. But I don’t have to work for long because the salty liquid bursts into my mouth before I’m ready, and I swallow it quickly, licking up all the traces from his cock before releasing it.
‘Mm, what did I do to deserve that?’ he asks with a yawn, after we’ve kissed our tastes into each other’s mouths.
‘Everything.’
‘Does that mean I get woken up this way every morning?’
‘Don’t push your luck, Ellison.’
‘Why change the habit of a lifetime?’
My laugh turns to a sneeze, then another. In my advanced state of mooniness, I haven’t noticed that I’ve been burning up and shivering all over since I awoke. It takes Lloyd’s hand on my forehead to realise it.
‘Fuck’s sake, Sophie, you need to break this habit of falling in lakes. Wait there, I’ll get the thermometer.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Shut up or I’ll make it the rectal thermometer.’
‘Promises,’ I say with a cough.
He returns from the bathroom and sticks his digital thermometer under my tongue. ‘Yep,’ he says, examining the reading. ‘You’re staying right there today.’
‘You don’t get flu from falling into lakes,’ I tell him. ‘That’s a myth. I bet one of your dodgy gambling mates was infectious.’
‘Yeah, and you’ve been spreading your germs on my cock. I’m going to get cock flu now.’
I giggle deliriously. ‘You’re an idiot. Is that anything like bird flu?’
‘I’m not sure I want to find out. OK: honey and lemon, paracetamol and a cold flannel. I think that’s what it said in the Boy Scout handbook.’
‘You were never a Boy Scout.’
‘Ah, but I was.’
I lie juddering and aching while he sorts me out with various palliatives.
‘Chase wouldn’t do this for you,’ he mentions.
True enough. Chase had hated it when anybody was ill, appearing to see it as a personal failing.
‘Chase is a twat.’
‘I thought that was me? I’m the twat around here. I don’t want anyone stealing my twat thunder.’
‘You aren’t, though, not really. Only in a nice way. You’re ace.’
‘So are you.’
He kisses my forehead and I drift into fever, knowing that I am loved.