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Dirty Little Secret	By : KohakuShadow Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male Views: 6364 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or any of its characters, nor am I making any money off of it. If I did there'd be more sex - lots of kinky gay mansex, for the record.

Chapter List
- 1-Dirty Little Secret
- 1
Warnings:anonymous sex, public sex, sex outdoors, glory holes, infidelity, mentions of incest, blow jobs, general porny-ness, and plenty of mansex.

Notes: Written as a gift for the awesome Bill_Ficathon at LJ.

Yes, I have a mailing list. If you want to be added, mail ladyloire@yahoo.com and in some way imply that you wish to be added. I will not add blank emails, but 'add me' is perfectly sufficient.

Dirty Little Secret

“Working late again?” Fleur asked as she kissed her husband on one cheek, then the other, and finally on the lips.
Bill hugged her around her distended belly. “Yeah, sorry. They keep me pretty busy.”
Fleur waved it off. “My 'usband, he likes everyzing in eets place. I will leave your supper on a plate on zee table for you again.”
“As usual,” Bill answered. “Thanks, Fleur. You're the best,” he said, giving her another peck on the cheek before disapparating to work.

Bill leaned back in his chair and sighed. He felt terribly guilty every morning that he lied to his wife, but after several months he'd grown rather accustomed to the guilt. If he wanted to, he could logic it away, but he didn't want to. When it all blew up in his face – which he was sure it eventually would – he wanted to be very clear on the fact that he had no one to blame but himself.
'I love my wife,' he reminded himself. It wasn't about that. 'But maybe that's exactly what this is all about, in the end. Because I love her, I want to protect her. There are things I want that I can't ask her for, things I need that she can't supply. But I love Fleur. I really do. She's the perfect woman, how could I not love her?'
Perfect, though, was exactly the problem. Bill had spent his whole life being the perfect son, perfect brother, perfect student, perfect everything. Even when he'd gone to Egypt in spite of his mother's wishes and long list of concerns, perfection had already been so ingrained that he couldn't help but be the best at curse breaking, too. Then he'd come home and married the perfect woman and there was not a doubt in his mind that they would raise perfect children in their perfect little house.
There was only so much perfect a man could take, Bill figured, before he snapped. He could feel himself teetering on that edge. Whenever he got too close to falling over it, he 'worked late'. But he loved his wife. Absolutely. He never doubted that.
'Still, I'd like to see you explain to her what loving her has to do with shagging other men,' he thought dryly as he put his quill back in its stand, capped his bottle of ink, and tidied up the last of the paperwork on his desk. He knew 'shagging other men' was pretty much the understatement of the century, but it was the only way he could stand to describe what he'd been up to twice a week for the past seven months.
“Still here, Weasley?”
Bill looked up to find Griphook in his doorway. “You know me,” he told the goblin. “I like coming in to a tidy desk in the morning.”
The goblin nodded with a little grunt of approval and shuffled along. 'Working late' was only half a lie – he was almost always the last wizard to leave Gringotts in the evening anymore, and the goblins seemed to appreciate his diligence. Because of those habits, Griphook thought nothing of the occasional late night, and he never suspected Bill might have ulterior motives for getting a little extra work done. He certainly would have never guessed, a man as respectable as Bill, might have business down Knockturn Alley.

The Buttonhole was pleasantly inconspicuous from outside – a simple sign of a bat drawing a piece of thread through an ordinary button hung over the door, and some mannequins moved about in the window modeling a variety of clothing that was mostly strappy leather and black lace. The male mannequin would occasionally smile and flex his muscles. The female mannequins would curtsy or pirouette rather randomly. There was one in particular that Bill had to tear his gaze away from – the way it twirled that black and white parasol was strangely hypnotic, but maybe that was just his mind's way of trying to distract him long enough for his conscience to tell him to go home to his pregnant wife. No such luck.
He stepped into the boutique and browsed the racks for a while to calm his nerves. He was a regular, really, but he still found himself relieved that the 'store' appeared legitimate, that there were no flashing neon signs that read 'Glory Holes, Gay Orgies, Naked Gyrating, and More! Clothing Optional.' Okay, so he knew that logically, there would never be such a sign in any shop, anywhere, but the Buttonhole's real business was a well-kept secret, and he had no intention of ever asking Charlie just who he'd shagged to find out about it. He moved towards the counter.
“Can I help you find something, sir?” the skinny little twink at the counter asked in a blatantly flirtatious tone.
“Do you have anything by Bacchus?” Bill asked for the fictional brand that would tell the boy what he was after had nothing to do with clothes. He could feel his palms sweating. No matter how often he came to the Buttonhole, it never felt normal. He was glad of that, too. If it started to feel ordinary, that's when he knew he'd become truly depraved.
“Ah, a man after my own heart,” the clerk said. Bill knew the dialogue by heart. “We keep our high end merchandise in the back room. Right this way, please.”
Bill followed him through the racks of clothing and past the fitting rooms and a small public restroom. Each step closer to the door at the end of the short hallway that read 'Staff Only' increased his anticipation. It no longer embarrassed him much that by the time he was slipping the young man his cover charge for an evening of sinful delights his trousers felt several sizes too small.
It should embarrass him. He knew it should. He'd always thought clandestine evenings out were one of those things that should never become a habit, but as he slipped through the door and walked toward his usual locker, Bill realized, much to his dismay, that he had a 'usual locker'. That realization terrified him, just a bit, but now wasn't the time to dwell on it.
He hung his suit and tie in the locker and set his palm against the wood. There was a soft golden glow and then he heard the lock slip into place. Like a snitch, these lockers had a flesh memory, and they had been charmed only to open for whoever closed them last.
Underneath the suit, Bill was wearing a pair of second-skin leather trousers and a mostly mesh shirt that left nothing to the imagination. Many of the Buttonhole's patrons forsook clothing entirely for their evening of untamed fantasy, but it was Bill's personal opinion that getting fucked up the arse only felt good when it wasn't a surprise.
He licked his lips and cleared a dry scratch in the back of his throat. From here, there were any number of choices to make – the rounded, submarine door led to the club proper, but he would save loud music and booze for later. First, he chose the unobtrusive door labeled "restrooms". He knew there was nothing unobtrusive about it. Off to the right, he could relieve his bladder, he knew, but he didn't require that for the moment, so he headed to the left, around a bend, and into a stall. The stall had no toilet, only a simple wooden chair that had been transfigured into a more or less toilet-shape on the bottom for effect. He sat down and waited for the writing to, quite literally, appear on the wall.
'Is your cock as sexy as those schmancy dragonhide boots?' the wall to his left asked.
Bill wet his lips in anticipation and dragged his fingertip along the wall to reply. 'Only one way to find out,' he scribbled.
" 'magine tha's true," a voice from the other stall laughed.
Bill shuddered. Holy fuck. It was an Irishman. There were few things in the world that could make Bill Weasley randier than an accent, and Irish just so happened to be his favorite. If nothing else about the man stood out (which Bill really had no way of knowing), he'd just fallen head over heels for that gorgeous voice. He shook off the chill of pleasure and read the writing again.
'Suck or fuck?'
Right to the point, eh? 'I believe in enjoying the appetizer before the main course whenever possible,' Bill wrote back.
There was a brief delay and a warm laugh before he heard three wand taps on the wall between them. He pulled out his own wand and returned in kind before standing to unfasten his trousers. It felt wonderful to release his turgid member from the oppressive leather. A hole appeared in the wall, perfectly smooth and just the right size to slip his long prick through.
On the other side of the stall wall, the Irishman cussed. "Feck. Hit the jackpot, din' I?"
Bill braced himself, but it didn't really help since he couldn't see what was happening on the other side of the wall. He bit his lip as he felt a warm tongue coil around his head as if it could pull the rest of his prick forward into the ready heat of the Irish slut's mouth (and in this case, Bill considered the word 'slut' the highest compliment). He clutched the top of the stall to steady himself as he felt the man swallow him down, the teeth graze those sensitive veins on his shaft.
He hated himself for how much he loved glory holes, how exciting it was to trust a random man with no name or face to bring him to the edge of orgasm and pull him down over it. It was the blindness, he decided – the not knowing what would happen or when. Not being able to see the man he was sucking, or who was sucking him, released all inhibitions and freed Bill to not worry about whether or not he looked sexy and sounded good. He could just let his face and body react however came most naturally. It freed the man on the other side of the wall to try things he might hesitate in experimenting with on a lover. Here, it didn't matter whether or not Bill was cool. It was a relief to be free of his image for once.
Here, they were both free to just let go.
...and oh! did Bill want to let go! He was desperately in need of it, but more than that, this guy was good. He played Bill's member like a flute. Bill thought the Irishman purring around his shaft must have sucked a hell of a lot of cock to have it down to such an art form. Of course, that could just be his hormones and a serious need for sweaty, gritty mansex talking. Either way, he was overcome with pleasure. It was an irony, perhaps, that in a lover, he might take exception to an extensive track record, but a stranger on the other side of a wall? Imagining how much time he spent on his knees just made him that much more alluring. It bothered him that during the day-to-day of his life he could be so opposed to the things he found the most sexually stimulating and not even bat an eyelash at the hypocrisy of his divergent thoughts. At the Buttonhole, he wanted a man who'd open his mouth, or bend over for just about anyone. He was excited by promiscuity, by the things he did and saw that had always been taboo. But he put on Gringott's uniform and went home, suddenly all the things he'd spent the night doing were disgusting. He didn't know what he hated more – that the things that brought him pleasure were frowned upon, or the possibility that he liked them because they were frowned upon. His mind wandered aimlessly through his tangled thoughts as his toes curled and his hips pulsed, but his mind was dragged back to reality as the man plied at his slit with the tip of his tongue. 'Merlin! Yes! Fuck yes!'
He wasn't stingy with his moans and ecstatic curses. Within the walls of of the secret club, he could be anyone. There was no need to be perfect, and he didn't feel any pressing need to worry about propriety. The beauty of it was that even if he ran into someone he knew, they'd never say anything – they were in just as deep as he was – they'd have to reveal themselves if they wanted to reveal him. And on the one or two occasions that had actually happened, they'd just fucked each other silly and moved on as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. Hell, his brother had brought him here the first time, and he wasn't going to lie and pretend he didn't know Charlie better than siblings ought to know one another for it.
He bucked his hips unconsciously and heard the Irishman moan in pleasure. No way? Did this guy like getting his face fucked? Bill tried to concentrate enough to make his body move in a way that had nothing to do with instinct and writhing desire and thrust his hips a little more. The Irishman moaned again and sucked harder. 'Bloody hell. He's perfect.' Listening to the moans around them of other men engaging in the same acts of indiscretion, Bill was sorely tempted to curl his fingers around the man's head and shag the hell out of his face, but there happened to be a wall in the way. He clutched the top of the stall harder and allowed his hips to thrust when they wanted to thrust and roll when they wanted to roll. The other man seemed to like it, so there was no reason not to let his body do as it pleased.
He felt his head pierce the back of the other man's throat, and felt the delectable moan cause his entire prick to vibrate. He couldn't hold it a second longer, and his toes curled as he came wit ha sharp cry that may or may not have insulted someone's mother. The man in the stall behind him came at the same time and, blinded by passion, Bill honestly couldn't distinguish which wild exclamations issued from his mouth and which did not as he shuddered to completion and the Irishman swallowed down all evidence of his recent climax.
Bill pulled himself back through the hole and grimaced as he stuffed his still erect member back into his pants. The lust charms that ran through the Buttonhole were both a blessing and a curse. He loved them for the heady, drunken feeling, and of course for how much shagging he could do in an otherwise impossible period of time, but they offered no reprieve. Even after such a mind-boggling orgasm, he wanted more, and for the first time since he'd first come here, led by his heavily intoxicated and entirely too alluring younger brother, Bill found he wanted more of the same man. He normally went from room to room – the beauty of a place like this was the flavors, the endless choices, but he didn't want a choice tonight. He wanted a face to put to that incredible voice and talented mouth...and the rest of the package, too, while he was on the subject.
As the hole between the stalls closed, a clover appeared. It was a simple enchantment. It meant that the Irishman had enjoyed himself. He would go down to the club, and if Bill wanted to identify him for another round – this time face to face – he would need only look for a man with a clover enchantment on the back of his left hand. Bill had never sent his own symbol back before – it felt too much like a commitment, but he couldn't resist pressing his palm and sending back an inked image of the Sphinx. Now, the man would expect him. An exchange of this nature was just as good as setting a date, and now that the first round was over and he'd committed to a second, it felt far less like random, anonymous sex and far more like cheating on his wife. When he heard the Irishman say, "left bar in fifteen," and exit his stall, another pang of guilt swept through him.
Bill sat back in the chair for a moment to collect himself. What was he doing? This was insane! He'd drawn a line in his mind without realizing it; anonymous sex was okay, but promises and commitments (even those only for more sex), were very much not okay. Sex was just sex, but he if he knew the bloke's name, then it was adultery. A deeply buried part of him knew that was utter nonsense, that no matter how you looked at any of this he was cheating on his wife, but it helped him to sleep at night to think 'as long as there are no attachments it's fine'.
As he left the stall and headed downstairs to the club, Bill realized if he could rationalize one thing, it would only be a matter of time before he rationalized the other as well. He passed a pair of barely legal boys frotting on the catwalk and reminded himself that the only reason he was here at all was that his wife couldn't fulfill his physical needs – not all of them, anyway – and that maybe it worked both ways. He told himself he'd be just fine with Fleur telling him she loved him but required the attentions of another woman to supplement her sex life. He probably wouldn't be okay with it at all, but it made him feel like less of an arse to think it would.
As he looked down from the top of the stairs at the throng of men in varying states of undress, his cock throbbed to remind him of his sorry state of arousal and he decided not to think anymore, at least not for tonight, he had a leprechaun to find.
He made his way slowly to the left bar, delayed only slightly by a few stray gropes and the offer of a foursome that he very reluctantly turned down. Foursomes could wait: he had to meet the Irishman with the magic lips, had to. In only a matter of minutes it had gone from a bad idea to a worse idea, to an unparalleled obsession. Later, he might blame it on the aphrodisiac charms, but at this precise moment all that mattered was that incredible voice and whatever manner of man happened to be attached to it.
He didn't have to look very hard. The handsome Irishman had made it a point to stand out. He was sitting on the bar in a glittery green top hat and a pair of matching shorts of indecent length. It was rather a miracle his bulging manhood was contained within them. 'Well, mostly contained,' Bill corrected himself as he got closer. He could quite clearly see the better part of the young man's heavy bollocks where the shorts stretched away from the top of his thighs. He'd painted a pair of four leaf clovers over his shamelessly perky nipples.
Bill's cock threatened to burst from his trousers. He'd never seen a more perfect (and perfectly perverse) man. The Irishman was young and handsome with eyes that crinkled at the edges when he smiled and an award-winning grin. Bill wanted him desperately the moment he laid eyes on him, and it was obvious he wasn't the only one. He managed to squeeze through the crowd in front of him and ordered two shots from the bartender. He reached for them with his left hand and watched the Irishman's eyes trail after the Sphinx signet that was only visible in this portion of the club. Jackpot. The young man turned his own hand over to reveal the clover signet and accepted the shot Bill handed him. They tilted them back quickly. The booze wasn't nearly as intoxicating as the company, and they hadn't even yet gotten to 'hello'.
"So," the young Irishman said. "How do you say 'suck my cock before it falls off' in Egyptian?"
Bill smirked and replied, "It's a mouthful."
" It ain't the only thing tha' is," the young man drawled, popping open his fly and letting his need burst free.
Bill took the hint and lowered his mouth over the hot flesh. It didn't matter that they were in the middle of a club or surrounded by strangers. People shagged in the club proper all the time. It was no big deal, though before tonight, Bill had never been the type to let himself go so completely. He usually found someone pretty to lead off to a private room. Some guys teased him about being shy or old-fashioned, but he mostly thought he just wasn't much of an exhibitionist.
At the moment, his usual habits didn't matter, though. He wanted the gorgeous young man so badly that he'd have sucked him on a Saturday afternoon in front of Big Ben if he'd asked. Besides, he owed the Irishman a spine-melting orgasm and he was going to do his best to provide it. He moaned around the hot flesh as he felt fingers curl into his red hair, egging him on.
"Feck yeah!" the young man exclaimed, tossing his head back as Bill started getting into it. The pulsing music, the crowd of barely dressed men – none of it even seemed real as he sucked and licked, as the other man's hands grabbed and massaged and the Irish voice cussed madly in pleasure. Nothing mattered to Bill at that moment other than the cock he was sucking and the delicious tramp attached to it – the wanton moans, the smooth skin, the musky scent that you could only get from a man at the height of pleasure. He slipped his hand into the barely there shorts to palm the man's sac as the crowd drifted in and out of his conscious attention. All he wanted was more of the salty cock in his throat, and much, much more of the man attached to it. He extended his fingers and reached further back, planning to slip a digit past the tight ring of the young man's anus, but found his efforts blocked by a hard piece of plastic. He could feel it vibrating.
'Fucking hell! He's stuffed, too?' Bill's prick pressed insistently against his trousers. He was like some god of sex – everything that aroused Bill the most was tied up into this one, randy young Irishman. It seemed impossible. How could one man be so erotic? So perfect? He was a wet dream come true.
Mr. Perfect cussed loudly, arched his back, and shot his hot, quivering load down Bill's throat. Bill swallowed it down – payment in kind – and pulled back.
The world flooded back in with its disco lights and its loud music and its mass of sweaty, naked bodies and some scattered applause as the bartender returned the green top hat to the Irishman's head.
It was only then that Bill really focused enough to give his co-star a good look. He'd known he was handsome and young, but the finer details had escaped his attention in favor of his pressing desire. Now that he was really looking at the Irishman, he couldn't be older than Ron, but there was no time to think about how that was probably several years too young for him to be fooling around with as his cheeks were cupped between two sweaty palms and the young man pulled him into a salty, passionate kiss. When their lips parted, the sultry young man said "Seamus". He had to yell it thrice to be heard over the music. Bill only made it out when he scooted off the counter, not bothering to tuck his bulging length away, and leaned in, body flush against his own, mouth to ear. "Seamus," he said again. "Tha's the name ye should scream when yer pouring buckets of cum into my arse."
Bill shivered a bit and repeated it. "Seamus," as he slipped his hands down the back of the tiny shorts to cup the globes of the Irishman's plugged arse. He leaned in and said it again, "Seamus..." before biting the young man's earlobe.
Seamus purred and broke away to nibble on Bill's collarbone.
"Let's go somewhere more quiet," Bill said. And get that arse-pounding well under way.
"Thought you'd never ask," Seamus exhaled. "Mr...?"
Bill's eyes widened in embarrassment at the oversight. "Bill," he answered honestly because it never dawned on him not to. "My name is Bill."
Seamus smirked up at him and smothered his mouth in a passionate kiss. "Thought ye'd never ask, Mr. Bill," he repeated playfully. Bill guessed at the exact words over the music, but they didn't matter. As Seamus pulled him by the hand through the crowd, his body language said, very clearly, that it was going to be a long night, and the Irishman intended to make good use of every last second of it.

Several Weeks Later:
Bill groaned as Seamus released one nipple with a soft pop and moved to the other. The chill night air ghosted across the damp flesh and made him shiver. The bark of the tree behind him dragged against his jacket. It was one of his Gringott's jackets, and it was a lucky thing he had several of the emblazoned suits, because this one was pretty much soiled beyond repair. He would have to throw it away, lest Fleur find it. He didn't know how he would be able to explain away the maple sap staining the back of his shoulders if she ever laid eyes on it.
"Seamus, we can't," he protested weakly as his Irish lover started pulling open his trousers. It was a vain, half-arsed protest and they both knew it as the playful Irishman tugged his pants down to his ankles.
"Why in the bloody hell can't we this time?" Seamus complained, though he knew Bill would cave in and let him have his way in the end. He always did.
"We're outside!" Bill hissed as Seamus stepped back to start stripping. He didn't take his time – jacket, shirt and pants were tossed against the base of the swing set in record time.
"...in the park!" Bill added even as he was helping Seamus get him out of his pants. Seamus tossed them into the same pile with a grin. "Children play here..." Bill finished lamely.
"Not at two in the bloody morning they don't," Seamus answered, tossing Bill's shirt and tattered jacket aside as well. They missed the targeted pile and landed draped over the seesaw. Seamus left them there and draped his arms through the monkey bars. He bent forward, arched his back and spread his thighs, stuck his arse out in invitation. "Don't pretend you don't love it," he told the redhead. "Shagging in public places really gets ye going."
"I don't," Bill lied weakly, already moving forward to grip the younger man's hips.
"Sure," Seamus moaned as he felt Bill's generous endowment slide easily into him from behind. "Ye don't love it at all. Right. So then why did you let me talk you into helping me make that 'deposit' in my safe at Gringott's, eh?" he moaned as the memory caused Bill to thrust particularly hard. "...or how about that time ye let me pound ya into the fitting room wall at Madam Malkin's when you were trying to pick out dress robes for your anniversary dinner?" he added, bucking back against Bill's thrusts with a moan that said in no uncertain terms he had no intention of trying to keep things quiet.
Bill shuddered. It was all so wrong, but every time Seamus pointed that out while they were in the middle of getting one off, it only aroused Bill further. 'I must be mental,' he thought, but there was really no arguing with the curve of his lover's back, or the sound of his moans, or the way his cock throbbed between his fingers when he wrapped them around it to jerk in tandem with his jutting hips. It was wrong, yes, but being wrong felt right. He loved sneaking off for a shag, doing it all under everyone's nose, no one being any the wiser. He loved the night breeze against his bare flesh, the rustling of the leaves, the crickets chirping, the aged chains of the swings creaking in the wind combined with their hoarse panting, his balls slapping rhythmically against Seamus's arse. He liked knowing that tonight, this was their playground, but tomorrow it would be a playground of a completely different sort and no one would know how they'd soiled it. He loved the way Seamus cursed and groaned as his cock dragged along his prostate as if there was no risk that they might be caught in spite of the fact they hadn't put up any charms that might prevent it. And he loved that there was always a chance that they could be caught in spite of the weak protests he offered Seamus, knowing he had every intention of letting the Irishman talk him into whatever debauched fantasy he'd come up with. He loved that Seamus loved the adventure that came with the reckless risks they took just as much as he did.
"Nngh. Feck. Me. Harder. Oh bloody...shite, Bill!" Seamus declared loudly.
Bill chuckled against the back of his shoulder and ground his hips so the abuse to Seamus's prostate would offer the man no reprieve from his pleasure. "You said 'harder'," Bill teased, pulling back until he was almost completely out of the tight heat and pounding back in at full force. He did this several times – enjoying the contrast between cool air and Seamus's hot arsehole on his shaft. His pulse raced and he tried to keep himself steady. He knew it would be over soon.
Seamus screamed his pleasure in his usual string of curses and Bill couldn't help but reply in kind. In the back of his mind, he was dully aware of a sense of apprehension. Seamus was so loud that he worried the muggles in the houses adjacent to the park might wake and find them, but that nervousness only enhanced his arousal. What he needed in life that his happy family couldn't provide was the exact thing that Seamus provided by the truckload – excitement, adventure, and of course, a tight arse and a hot, hard prick. It was the risk that drew them together, and the risk that kept them coming back for more.
Bill dug his toes into the dirt and jerked his hips in short, swift strokes. He slapped into Seamus's prostate over and over again. Seamus moaned lustily and cursed several deities as he bucked back against the older man. And when they came it was the same way they always came together – thick and messy and loud.
Sated, they fell back onto a patch of grass, leaving their clothes where they lay for now as they gazed up at the clouds drifting across the stars.
"Hey, Bill?"
"Mn?"
"Somethin' I've been meaning to ask ye for a while," Seamus said.
Bill sat silent and waited.
"Why the Buttonhole? Ye never really struck me as the type, if you catch me meaning. Too nice."
Bill tensed. The Buttonhole. He hadn't been back since the first night with Seamus. There was no reason to go – the Irishman kept him more than satisfied sexually and he found having a wife and lover was better for his nerves than having a wife and, well, half of Britain. He was always paranoid someone would recognize him on the street and say something, though he knew that was improbable. The Buttonhole was a secret everyone was better off keeping. "I'm not nice," he said finally. How could he be nice? He was cheating on his pregnant wife and loving every second of it. And often! He might not go to the club any longer, but he snuck away with Seamus at least twice as often. He'd met him for 'lunch' every day this week, and this is the second night in a row that they'd crawled out of bed in the middle of the night for a round. He definitely wasn't 'nice'. If he was nice, he'd have the decency to feel properly guilty about this. He might even have the decency to call it off, but he knew a snowball stood a better chance in hell than he stood of ever turning Seamus away.
"Bill," Seamus sighed.
"Fine, I'm nice. Whatever," Bill griped. "I. I'm married," he confessed.
"Ring sorta gave ye away," Seamus joked.
"Shut up," Bill laughed. "Do you want to know or not?"
"I'm shutting! I'm shutting!" Seamus laughed as well.
"I'm married, and I love my wife. Loads. She's great. But..."
"But she's not enough," Seamus interrupted.
"She's not enough," Bill conceded with a devastated sigh. He'd never said the words aloud, even though he'd thought them often enough. "She's all I could hope for in a woman – beautiful, smart, funny, kind, if a little too honest sometimes. And I want it all – a family, kids... I want that life. I just...can't seem to give up men, is all."
Seamus nodded and rolled onto his side. None of what Bill said really surprised him. He propped himself up on his elbow. "Hey, I totally get it," he said. "I mean, I'm engaged."
Bill, on the other hand, was shocked. His eyes widened enough that Semaus laughed.
"Shut up!" the Irishman said. "If ye can be married, I can be engaged. And I 'spect ye to be at my wedding to give me a good, hard shag when I'm in me tux, too." He joked. "She's a decent gal, ye know. Bit clingy sometimes, but sweet. I can make it work." He flopped back into the grass, laced his fingers behind his head and sighed. "I've got to. Only child, see? And mam, she really wants gran'kids. I can't tell 'er ahm fruitier than a Christmas cake. Can't. She'd say it was okay, but she'd never understand, not really. So, I've got me this nice girl, and I've got a way to get me rocks off. And I guess if I think about it, I'm like you – I really do want a family n'all. I want at least one lil' brat running around, makin' mischief. I want all that shite, but it's not enough."
"Two of a kind, then," Bill mused. Where did that leave them? It seemed like the perfect time to say something profound, make some kind of declaration, and part of him wanted to. He wanted to do something that made them 'official', that made having a wife and having a boyfriend okay. He wanted to say 'no more Buttonhole. Just you and me, and our various moral dilemmas and familial obligations', but he'd never say it. Saying it would just create a new obligation, and they both already had enough drama. "I should get back soon," he said instead.
"Yer old lady hasn't noticed ye sneakin' out at night?" Seamus asked.
"I'm famous for midnight snacks and falling asleep in front of the fireplace," Bill shrugged. "She'll find a rumpled blanket in the chair in the morning and think nothing of it as long as I've got the tea on by the time she gets up."
Seamus grinned, eyes twinkling with mirth. "Then we've got time for another round," he said, rolling over again to straddle Bill's hips.
"Nympho," Bill chided.
Seamus laughed. "Takes one to know one, lover."
"I suppose it does," Bill answered with a soft chuckle.
He wrapped his arms around his lover's back as Seamus easily and eagerly frotted him to a new erection that formed more quickly than it had any right to. Bill knew, very clearly, that there would be no declarations between them, no promises, and yet, what they had would endure. The lusty Irishman would be, quite simply, his best kept and most precious secret. He hoped it was a secret he would spend his whole life keeping. Turning this into anything more would give them both far too much to lose.

The End
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Dirty Little Secret