An Unexpected Kind of Love by Hayden Stone

Chapter Nineteen

Blake goes to have a shower. He emerges in a cloud of steam when he opens the door fifteen minutes later and steps out with a luxurious white towel secured around his waist. Of course, he’s brilliant to look at, all slender muscle over his bones. He could have a very lucrative career as a men’s underwear model if this acting thing doesn’t work out. Or, in this case, towel model, which would probably do wonders for sales at John Lewis or whatever the American department store equivalent is. Nordstrom?

I’m sat on the bed, out of my jeans and down to boxers and a T-shirt, my scrawny legs hidden away beneath the fluff of the duvet, which is bearable given the substantial air-con in here against the summer’s night. The hotel room is far more comfortable than my tiny bedsit.

I gaze at him. His hair is damp, water rivulets still tracking along his chest, which is lightly haired. Down soft, from firsthand experience.

We gaze at each other in the quiet and the glow of the bedside lamp.

“Come to bed with me,” I whisper, leaning forward to kiss him. Brushing my mouth softly against his, and then again, I pull him down with me to the bed.

Together, we explore each other leisurely, hands roaming each other’s bodies like explorers in the wilderness, charting new terrain. Then, we’re kissing like our lives depend on it. Greedy, seeking. It’s not long before Blake’s towel and my boxers are history.

“I don’t have any more condoms,” I say breathlessly between hungry kisses, thirsting for this man. Blake’s cock is rigid in my hand and God I want him more than anything. “But…my last test was clear. For STIs, I mean.”

“Mine too.” Blake pauses long enough to fumble in his bag, producing lube. He strokes himself, cock glistening. It’s a gorgeous sight: Blake fresh from a shower, his gaze all intense for me, the strain of him.

He presses me down. I pull him close. And he sucks on my nipple rings in turn. I moan like something else possesses my voice, his slick fingers working me, teasing my arse till I’m ready for him. And he spreads me, admiring.

Shuddering at being so vulnerable before him, I press my hips closer.

“You want this?”

And my face is on fire, compromised for him. Anything.

“I want you,” I manage.

Blake rubs himself against my arse, seeping and hot.

He shifts to kiss me lingeringly, our hands linked as I wrap my legs around him. And he eases himself inside, my back arching with the thrill of him as I gasp. The weight of his body on mine is intoxicating. In his arms is safety, comfort. Feeling wanted and cared for, even in our urgency.

My body is more than ready, pressing to meet him. After tonight, the stress of the party—of Eli, specifically—and the drama of the burst pipe, everything has more meaning.

He shifts to grip my arse and rolls to sit up. And I straddle him, stroking my cock, wild for him. It’s hard to think with him like this, the burn of his mouth tonight, the extra intensity to seeing him so undone and desperate.

For me.

Impossible to imagine. Instead, I give over to raw emotion.

Wanting. Needing. Feeling.

Blake works me with relentless fingers and I ride him, panting and shuddering, till we abruptly roll over and I’m belly-down on the bed, face pressed into the duvet. Goose bumps cover my body.

And then, holy fuck.

He slaps my arse and rides me like the apocalypse is at our door and the last thing he wants to do is have me. And I’m his, all his, desperately his. His urgency only makes me more wild for him.

“Fuck,” I sob out. “Blake.”

And when he comes, thrusting intensely, his mouth burning at the nape of my neck, his arms heavy over mine, he sobs out my name, over and over, smothered in my hair.

When he finally collapses on me, the length of him still inside me, I shudder hard as I come against myself and the bed, not even needing to touch myself to get off. Because there’s the thrill of him, so close, so wanting. His fingers are tight against my hips.

“Aubrey, Aubrey…” He’s whispering in my ear, ragged.

“I’m right here…” I gasp, turning my head slightly as he nibbles on my ear.

“I want you so much.”

“I’m here. I want you too.”

And then he slides off and flips me over, taking stock of the mess I’ve made of myself and the bed. He gives a low, throaty chuckle that thrills me. Then, he bends his head to lick me clean. It’s hard to imagine there was a time in my life before Blake. Our bodies are caught in a call and answer that feels too raw, too instinctive for us to have known each other for only a couple of weeks. As his tongue runs along my belly, I shudder, raking my fingers through his damp hair, cool against my skin.

When he takes my cock into his mouth, so sensitive after coming, I buck slightly. He holds me down, working me gently. And I sob out, writhing between pleasure and pain.

And honestly? It’s so hot.

“Oh God— Blake—”

I can’t think. Not for any sum of money. Or anything else.

Instead, I moan and sob like a wild thing. Everything’s raw.

He continues until I’m stiff enough and then, before long, my body jerks as I come powerfully, flowing over his tongue. Blake’s fingers are tight on my wrists, holding me down.

Finally, he sits up, kneeling.

God, he’s a vision, dark hair sweeping over his brow, taut muscles in the light. And then he wraps me up tight in his arms and the duvet, kissing me reverently, like I mean everything to him. And him to me. Our fingers trace each other’s skin, our bodies imprinted on each other.

Eventually, we return to ourselves, wrapped in each other in bed. Blake nuzzles me and I shiver, highly tuned to his touch. “I need to tell you something,” he says softly, giving me a kiss.

I gaze at him, smiling. “You own a bean emporium?”

He grins. “You’d be the first to know if I did. No. My agent called again…”

“Oh?” I shift to see his face better, propped on an elbow. All the better to admire him, his soft expression, see his hesitation. “News about L.A.?”

Blake shakes his head. “Not quite. News about New York.”

“New York?”

He swallows, searching my eyes. I’m getting nervous as he draws this out.

“You can say anything to me, you know,” I murmur, tracing his chest and taking his hand. We intertwine our fingers.

“It’s another audition. A really important audition. It’s for a lead role in a major film that’s booked to start shooting. The actor they had just backed out last minute, so they’re casting again. I’m just waiting on confirmation on a date, but it’s probably very soon.”

“’Kay.” I kiss his fingers, then gaze at him. “Then you should do it.”

Blake makes some small unhappy noise. “The honest truth is that I’d rather stay here with you. Or in your flat. Or get back out to the countryside together, you know? New York’s the opposite of where I want to be.”

Some part of me thrills to hear this, to know Blake wants me so badly. And the realization that I want him just as much. “Lovely, I don’t want to stand in the way of your dreams. And…one thing at a time, I suppose. An audition’s one thing, landing the part is another.”

“Why’re you so sensible?” Blake groans, scooping me close and showering me with kisses. I couldn’t speak then if I wanted to, but having Blake greedily to myself right now is a thrill.

And we spend the night like this, drifting off to sleep at last quite some time later, me holding tightly onto Blake like he might disappear in my sleep if we happen to make the mistake of letting go. Wanting him like this is terrifying, but the thought of him absent from my life is devastating.

There’s a sharp rapping at the door at some unholy hour.

I can tell that much as I squint at my watch, head resting against Blake’s shoulder. The bedside lamp is still on, casting a small glow in the room. Beside me, Blake stirs with a groan, a silhouette.

I shift closer to him. Must be some drunk trying to get home. It’s so early that the sun’s not up, though I can see the first streaks of pink toward dawn through the small gap between the curtains.

A loud rapid-fire knock again.

“Blake,” someone calls. A man’s voice.

Ugh.

Definitely a voice. I’m definitely not at home. I kiss his shoulder sleepily, lifting my head to peer at him. “S’mebody’s here. Should I hide?”

He groans again and rolls onto his back.

“It’s Andrew,” says the voice through the door. “I need to talk to you.”

“Shit,” says Blake, sitting up so abruptly that I collapse on the pillow beside him. He springs out of bed, finding a robe in record time. My immediate instinct is to pull the duvet over my head and hide, because I’m brave like that.

Who’s Andrew?

Another lover? Who else would come knocking at this time, wanting to talk? Though his film project does seem to keep stupid hours, late and early both, to be fair. The film industry apparently has hours well outside of my shop hours, that’s for certain.

A moment later, I hear the door open.

“Hey,” Blake says. He’s still perfectly audible from where I’m hiding beneath the down duvet.

“Hey, sorry to disturb you so early, but I thought you’d want to see what the local press is reporting,” mystery Andrew says, all apologetic in tone. “I’ve got a couple of papers. There’s more online. Check your phone. I’ll let you have a chance to look at these too. Then call me and we’ll figure out a strategy. Don’t say anything online to anyone, for any reason.”

There’s a rustling of paper.

Mystery Andrew must be some sort of filming person.

“Okay. Uh, thanks. I think. For the heads up.” Blake’s voice, curt. “It’s early.”

“Don’t mention it. Thought you’d want a chance to see before we start the day. Oh, and it’s hit the US news too.”

The door clicks shut.

I peek out from under the duvet. Blake stands with a paper tucked neatly under his arm, the Daily Mail open in his hands.

“Don’t read that,” I groan sleepily at him. “It’s a pack of lies, whatever it says. Speaking of tabloid fodder.”

He’s still as a statue. Unmoving.

“Blake?”

Nothing.

Reluctantly, I get out of the warmth of the bed and retrieve my boxers from where they were flung in the heat of the moment at the foot of the bed. I go over to Blake and slide my arms around his waist from behind, resting my head against his shoulder. I skim the text before going to the photo essay across the top half of the two-page spread.

Filming for Hollywood Ending, the American feature rom-com being shot in London, heats up between Lars Madden and Faith Rivers. Romance strikes the cast. Lars and Faith caught in an exclusive, kissing at a cast party.

Co-star Kelly Greaves spotted yesterday night locking lips with magnate William Locking outside of Severn’s. Meanwhile, up-and-coming Blake Sinclair’s all caught up in a whirlwind romance with local bookseller Aubrey Barnes of Barnes Books in Soho, as spotted in Cumbria and London…

The article goes on but I stop reading and gawp at the photos.

Me and Blake, in an intimate kiss in Cumbria, in our waterproofs outside in the woods on one of our walks. Then I see:

Lovers holed up in posh London hotel.

My eyebrows shoot up, while my stomach lurches at the violation of our privacy. How did they know? Did the holiday cottage manager give us up? Or other holidaymakers? How could this happen without us noticing? I give Blake a sidelong glance.

He’s staring, pale. I kiss his cheek but he doesn’t respond. Distractedly, he disentangles from me, goes to his phone on the bedside table, and starts scrolling.

“I don’t think any good will come of looking yourself up online,” I say. “If I know anything about the media.”

“Fuck,” he says at last, on the verge of tears as he looks at me. “It’s made a couple of the gossip sites. Like TMZ.”

“Well, gossip sites are just that, gossip. And the others?”

“E! News, for starters. Access Hollywood. As if our relationship’s entertainment.” He snorts, sounding uncharacteristically bitter.

I make a face, trying to find the positive in this situation. Struggling, I chew my thumbnail. “At least we’re not doing anything worse than kissing?”

He shoots me a dark look and I fall quiet.

“Sorry,” I say, chastised. “It’s an epic invasion of privacy for both of us, I know.”

“It’s a whole fucking nightmare. They’ve gone through half the cast, I swear,” he says with dismay.

“People think the lives of celebrities are extra entertainment. Whether on-screen or off. Somehow, they feel entitled—”

“Thanks for explaining how it works, Aubrey. I didn’t realize,” Blake says, irritated.

I blush and shut up, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Look, I wish I could undo this. And it’s crap that they give no fucks about your privacy or mine or that of your castmates, but…thing is, that’s all out there. And—it’s not so terribly bad, is it? You know the saying, there’s no such thing as bad publicity?”

He stares at me and promptly bursts into tears. I feel horrible for having said very much the wrong thing at the worst moment. I get up and go to him, to draw him into my arms, yet he backs away like he’s been burned.

“What’s going on?” I ask, searching his eyes. Obviously, he’s upset, but I don’t get why he’s mad at me. “I haven’t said anything other than to my friends last night. And Lily before that, but Lily wouldn’t say a word. Obviously, some paps have an agenda—”

“You don’t get it!”

I gawp at him, not used to Blake being out of sorts like this. “Tell me so I do get it,” I urge him.

He throws the newspaper down on the desk, rubbing his eyes furiously with the heels of his hands. “People will read that.”

Heat stings my cheeks. “Yeah, and anybody with half a brain knows the Mail is a rag and who knows about the rest of them to be taking tabloid photos and calling themselves journos. Fuck them. It’s not real, is it? You’re real. I’m real.”

Blake stares at me. Almost through me, haunted. “People who matter will read this too. Casting directors for films. And…” His voice breaks. “My family.”

I just stare at him. “Are you…embarrassed by me?” I ask at last, my voice barely audible as the room spins.

“I’m— People don’t know I’m attracted to men.” Blake just stares at me. “Well, I’m attracted to women too, for the record. I guess that makes me bisexual.”

“Or pansexual, if you’re attracted to all genders. Or just plain old queer.” Tears prick my eyes. I grip the edges of the bed to steady me, struggling to make sense of what Blake’s telling me. “So you are embarrassed by me, then. Like, I’m not good enough for you.”

“It’s not that. I just…I just can’t be gay.”

I gawp at him. What sort of internalized homophobia is this? “Blake, you’re not gay. You’ve just said yourself that you’re bi. Which is totally, absolutely fine. I don’t get why you’re losing your shit like this and making this out to be my fault somehow—”

“It’s not your fault!” Blake snaps as he scrubs at his face again.

“Then?” I demand.

“Then…Hollywood’s traditional. People might do what they like, but there’s not much space for people being queer and out if they want major parts. Especially not for men.”

“Toxic masculinity much?” I say through clenched teeth.

He just stares. “But it’s even worse than that.”

“How?”

“My dad will find out I’m…I’m some kind of queer.”

“And?”

“I’m not out to him.”

Quiet and slump-shouldered, I sit on the bed, watching him go to pieces. “Fuck, Blake.”

“He won’t understand,” he says in a brittle voice. “Even if I try to explain. He’s hopeless.”

It’s such a foreign concept to me, being closeted in some way, in whole or in part. My parents were always supportive of my sexuality and never questioned it. I can see now I was lucky.

“Does anyone know in your family?” I try gently, holding my breath. Is this wrong of me to ask? Am I violating his privacy too?

“My sisters.”

“And what do they think?”

“They think it’s fine.”

My expression softens. “Because they love you. And people who love you will find a way through, I’m sure of it.”

He eyes me warily as I get up and approach. Again, he backs away. “Don’t,” he says sharply. “You’ll just make this worse.”

I throw my hands in the air. “So you’re punishing me for this? All I want is you, Blake.”

God, what just came out of my mouth?

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” I say immediately, guilt rising. “I’m acting like an arse. I’m just upset. For us. For you especially. I mean, God, your family—”

“I—we—can’t do this. Not anymore. I—I shouldn’t have fallen for you in the first place. It was a mistake.” He just stares at me for a long moment, his expression hard and distant.

“What? What do you mean?”

Wait—he fell for me?

And then all the air goes out of me. White-knuckled, I ball my hands into fists, stuck in place. Nauseous, I’m trying and failing to keep it together as I shake. Having Blake and having lost him in an instant is too much to take. I’m not cut out for this.

Blake’s crying. He can’t look at me. “I think…I think you should go.”

“But—”

“Please, Aubrey. If you care about me even a little bit, you’ll do this for me.”

“I—” I choke on my words, not sure what to say.

But his expression’s hard and unyielding when he at last stares through me, eyes full of tears, face red with emotion.

And with unsteady, shaking hands, I dress, barely able to manage socks and jeans and a black T-shirt, and stuff my feet into battered trainers. Packing my bag in some surreal unreality, Blake remains frozen in place, watching me. And I can’t think, just going through the motions of packing up my few possessions, trying to act calm when I’m anything but. My stomach lurches.

Then, I stand in front of him, pack slung over my shoulder. I hesitate, my mouth opening and shutting. There are so many things I want to say to him—how important he is to me, how in two weeks he’s come and turned my world upside down.

Turned my heart upside down.

And now everything’s over, just like that. In a flash of a photographer’s camera, something private and sacred is now media fodder, some clickbait online for someone’s idle scrolling on their phone for a second before the next thing catches their attention.

But for me, my world’s gone, with the most important person in it in front of me.

And I can’t have him. Because he doesn’t want me.

All because of perceptions, some stupid paparazzi nightmare.

“Blake—” I choke out.

He shakes his head abruptly, turning away. His shoulders shake. “Please go.”

I’m a wreck, gawping at him. I can’t believe this. “Just promise me you’ll do your audition. Fuck the media. It’s your dream.”

“I don’t know. Aubrey. Please. I need you to leave.” His voice breaks, his face covered with his hands.

And, with the last scrap of strength I have, I do as he asks, attempting to dry my tears on the cuff of my lightweight jacket. How could I lose everything that mattered so quickly?

Dizzy, I go out into the dazzling sun, lost.