An Unexpected Kind of Love by Hayden Stone
Chapter Nine
When the tube spits us out in the swelter of King’s Cross Station on our adventure, we go up via the escalators to the concourse level. Even at this hour, the concourse is busy, flowing with travelers coming and going. Digital signs announce departures and arrivals, cancellations and delays.
“What are we getting? You can’t be hungry yet.” Blake chuckles. “Please don’t tell me you’re pit-stopping for meat snacks.”
“Oh no, we’re stopping for something much better than meat snacks,” I retort, making a beeline for Boots before the shop closes in a few minutes. With a gulp, I take Blake’s hand, hot in mine, a gesture that sends a ripple up my spine. “And I can’t say I’m confident that’s not some sort of American innuendo.”
He laughs with glee. “No! I quite literally meant meat snacks.”
“Well, you’re in for a surprise, then.”
Oh God. I’m in. All in.
He squeezes back, a surprised—and if I didn’t know better, but who’s to say at this stage of our current non-relationship status—yet terribly hopeful grin on his face. “Condoms?”
“Guess again.”
We go immediately to the beauty section. Everything glimmers with promise, from eyeshadows to nail varnish. “We need makeup for a night out.”
I give him a challenging look as we stand before a display of eyeshadows in an expanse of colors.
Intrigued, he gazes from me to the stand and back again.
What does he think? This is probably a terrible idea. I haven’t done this sort of thing in a dog’s age. Probably not since back before dogs evolved.
“What are you planning?” he asks, squeezing my hand.
“We’re going dancing. And we need to look the part. Up for that?”
He laughs with delight, moving closer. “Oh yes. So not only do you make things, but you make over people too. I’m totally game.”
So I get to work, giving him a critical eye and then picking out colors. In cruelty-free makeup suitable for vegans. Particularly a vegan that I suddenly, strangely, want to impress. In a way beyond books or earnestly flailing my way through my non-existent knowledge about pulses and veganism in an effort to make a lasting impression. Now, I’m digging deeper into the dormant skills of a past Aubrey. With mineral eyeshadow and liner, red lipstick, moisturizer, and foundation, I insist on the purchase since he bought dinner.
And once we exit, I pull him into an alcove. He catches my jaw and kisses me in a way that promises to be my undoing, something fierce. When his hand rests on my chest, my heart thuds a rhythm beneath his touch.
…
I orchestrate an efficient makeover in the toilets at King’s Cross. Apparently there’s such a thing as muscle memory when it comes to remembering how to put on makeup. We’re in and out, no muss, no fuss.
“Genius.” Blake marvels at his reflection, the color on his lips striking with his dark hair, a smoky eye. In theory, it’s supposed to be kiss-resistant. We may put that to the test later.
We better.
“No one will recognize you so easily now.” My reflection’s all rumpled reddish blond waves, a softer pink lip, eyeliner, and shadow. If only my shirt wasn’t quite so creased, but oh well.
“Talented and thoughtful. You’re a great catch,” he jokes as we head out for the short walk to the rock club. “Now, where are you taking me?”
“Lucky’s.”
“Ooh, I like the sound of that.”
Unable to keep a smirk from my lips, I hurry him along. At night, the heat’s only a fraction less than the day, waves still rising from the pavement. I’ve texted ahead to my mate who works at the club, saving a couple of tickets for us at the door.
The hipster woman at the box office efficiently completes the transaction. The bouncer waves us through soon enough. We find ourselves in a wash of dappled club lights, the roar of the show already underway. The dance floor writhes with movement. Ecstatic energy of the dancers bounces off the walls.
We get over-the-top cocktails, and once they’re finished and before I can protest, Blake’s led me onto the dance floor, his hand hot in mine.
On the dance floor, it’s a sea of bodies moving with the music. Blake’s hand sears my skin as I grapple with the shock from the impulsive decision to get out here, rather than skulk sensibly by the safety of the bar. That would have been the more dignified, tamer approach. My usual go-to spot in a club, well away from the dance floor.
Out here, Blake’s rhythm takes over, the way he gives himself over to the music. Head back, eyes closed, he’s the beat of the drum, the bassline, resplendent under dappled lights. Like this, I have a chance to admire his beauty, the comfort in his movements as he dances with ease.
And when he opens his eyes to catch me in mid-gawp, he laughs and pulls me tight against his body. Like this, I’m officially on fire, between his closeness, the heat of the club, and the hundreds of dancers where we’re insignificant.
I slide my arms around his waist. The way he glows at that makes me smile too.
“What are you making me feel?” I breathe against his ear, a playful nip for good measure.
With the thumping music, I don’t know if he hears me, but he pulls me against him to dance tight together. This euphoria, this closeness, takes over my usual restraint. Possibly also helped by the cocktail.
Out here, we lose ourselves to the moment, the simple pleasure of dancing so close—so carefree—with someone.
Not just someone. Blake.
One song leads to another, and another. Eventually, parched, we have water and fresh drinks at the bar. There’s a long, tentative moment where we gaze at each other, quite unlike the way we danced with abandon only a few minutes before. He’s flushed.
Finding some courage drawn from Aubrey of days long since past, I slide my hand along his jaw, rough against my fingers, to draw him close for a kiss that claims us both. Then, there’s no club, no angst. For a moment, a glorious moment, I’m lost in the simple, pure joy of kissing a man who wants to kiss me right back.
When we straighten, I see signs of people making a move to leave seating at the back in a shadowy corner. Leading Blake by the hand, we snag the table as they go, setting our drinks down.
Dead impressed by my table-hunting prowess, which is admittedly formidable, Blake leans over for a flirtatious kiss. Of course I encourage this naughty behavior, tucked in our corner away from roving eyes. It’s still too loud for non-shouted conversation, so we go on with kissing, because our mouths say plenty without words.
Despite the thudding bass, I hear—and taste—a throaty, blissful groan from Blake. Of him pulling me slightly closer. Of me pressing over, the heat of my leg against his as I slide over.
Our kisses are greedy. Hungry.
This is about when I slide my hand over the front of his jeans, confirming that yes, he’s actually hard as I suspected on the dance floor.
Because of me. God, what an idea.
Blake shudders, eyes half closed with pleasure. As I suck on his earlobe, he shivers.
And it’s my turn to groan as his hand rubs my stiffening cock through my jeans. And fuck. It’s impossible to think straight.
With a glance around, we clumsily snake hands inside each other’s jeans. It’s impossible to know who’s more undone, our bodies electric with the current of music and each other.
It’s everything I can do to keep myself from climbing on top of Blake in public, but beneath the table, our hands rove without mercy. My hand’s inside his button-fly jeans, over the cotton of his boxers, moving rhythmically with the beat we started on the dance floor.
“Ohh fuck,” manages Blake, biting down on his crimson—remarkably unsmeared—lip, as I work him to the brink, back down, and increase the tempo again. And he shudders hard, thrusting in my hand as he comes, hot and sticky. I tease him till he can’t take it anymore. At last, I wipe my hand inside his jeans against his boxers.
He kisses me thoroughly.
Which only makes him work me without mercy, holding my gaze when we sit up. My fingers press against the edge of the table. Gasping, it’s all I can do not to cry out, breathless.
Club lights dazzle. The music pounds. His touch burns.
And then it’s too much, the firm press of his hand, the shudder of skin as his hand takes my cock.
Unable to help it, I muffle a cry in my mouth, half smothered in my throat. And thank fuck for the noise in the club, drowning me out.
Blake’s grinning, gaze fixed solely on me, our separate debauched world a few galaxies over from the rest of the club where everyone else is.
And then he eventually retrieves his hand, making a show of licking his fingers with unabashed glee. “Mmm.”
My face burns as he then licks my fingers. I try to remember how to breathe, sides heaving, spine tingling, legs sprawled against his under the table.
“Fucking hell.” I lean my head against his shoulder, reeling. Blake laughs with delight, sliding his arm around me.
And then, right then, everything’s brilliant.
…
By the time last call happens and everyone’s subsequently shooed out of the club, we’re both loose-limbed with drink, giddy as people pour out into the street. In a dark corner, we kiss, Blake’s fingers gripping my arse. My fingers slide against his chest, tracing muscle under the suggestion of fabric.
God. This man. Perfection, or as close as a mortal can get.
Then, inconveniently, my stomach rumbles. Dinner was a long time ago.
“Would you be mortally offended if I had a kebab now?” I ask, light-headed with the euphoria of the night. With the taste of Blake’s kisses still light on my lips.
What is this strange, warm feeling? A big night out, beyond reckoning. The first in an eternity. Or is it an eon? Even nights out with friends don’t see me feeling so relaxed by the end of it.
We’re kisses and air, fingers and goose bumps. Part of me is sorely tempted to drag him back to my place to carry on.
Except I can’t.
I can’t show him how I live. Where I live. Not a chance.
“These are the meat snacks you want?” Blake’s entirely irreverent.
“Chickpeas and kale aren’t the same at two in the morning,” I protest. “But now I feel terrible. Selfish of me.”
“Oh no. I want you to have your kebab fix because you deserve it.” Blake smiles.
“Would you eat chips, at least?”
“I just might. Fries, as we say in American.”
“Cute. Let’s go.”
We don’t have to go too far to find people queueing for kebabs at a nearby shop, the spillover from the club. Before terribly long, we have our food and it’s beautiful in its deep-fried glory. Blake’s happy with his falafel and chips. I have my favorite kebab. We alternately walk and pause to eat.
We’ve definitely missed the last tubes and trains. Taxis are scarce, empty ones even more so. We could try to find a taxi rank but taxis are too expensive anyway. Which means—
“Are you staying near Soho?” I ask once we finish eating.
Blake nods. “Do you…” he falters, searching my eyes, “want to come back with me?”
Part of me screams a “yes, fuck yes, right now” sort of yes. I’m having far, far too much fun with him tonight, even more galaxies over from my usual problems—and fuck me if it’s not a terrifying idea. The greedy part that wants more fun fights with the part that’s nervous for more.
Because if there’s more, what does that mean?
I hesitate. “I…”
“No pressure,” Blake says in a rush, tripping over his words in his eagerness to put me at ease. “I mean, we’ve had a lot to drink. And eat. And…”
I gulp, gazing at this entirely too beautiful man, like nature made him to torment me and his legions of Instagram followers. He’s all angles, eyes a soft blue beneath the streetlamps.
It would be very easy to lick my way along his jaw right now.
Not. Helping.
“Would you…” I take his hand, gulping in a steadying breath. Or something like it, from back when oxygen and I were friends. “Be offended if I said not tonight?”
His expression softens. “Of course not. I mean, I want you to be comfortable.”
“I know I’m being weird. I’m like the anti-Grindr right now. I’m kind of mortified, actually. I don’t know why I’m like this.”
Reasons pop up. The shock of our impulsive tryst. Self-consciousness. Too much to drink tonight might lead to another freak-out—and I definitely don’t want that.
I don’t want to ruin this thrilling, fabulous night.
“It’s fine, don’t worry. I’ve come out with you because you’re interesting and funny—and hot—and I want to spend time with you. You don’t need to come back to the hotel with me… I just want you to know I’ve had a lot of fun with you tonight.”
We stand in a bath of light cast by the streetlamp. The heat from the day still lingers at 3:00 a.m., close to the skin and sultry. Like Blake’s hand in mine.
“I still feel like a numpty,” I confess.
“I don’t even know what that is, but I think I get the idea,” teases Blake, all nighttime sleek.
“I can try to make up for being daft by attempting to navigate the night bus to get us closer to Soho again.” With that, I retrieve my phone from the depths of my pocket, lost in schedules and maps. I’m fucked if I’m too drunk to figure this out.
“How about this one?” Blake squints into the distance at an approaching double-decker. “It’s at least headed south.”
“How do you know that?” Aghast, I stare at him. A newbie in town, and he’s already a pro at public transport. Meanwhile, I flail around rather uselessly, especially for someone who should very well know the night bus routes like a second heartbeat, having grown up in London. But the honest truth is that I’ve had far more nights in with books than mad nights out, no matter what Gemma thinks of me and my quasi-rocker looks.
It’s been years since I’ve had big nights out on the regular, going to gigs with friends. When I did, often enough, we were in stumbling distance to someone’s flat. Or the gig was in someone’s flat.
At any rate, I better not reveal how much of a recluse I’ve been lately if I’m going to save any face at all.
He’s still looking at me while I have a moment of internal Transport for London existential despair. I’m fairly confident this is the right bus, but—
“Well,” he says, lowering his voice, “wanna know a secret?”
“Of course.” Impatient, I look at the bus as he flags it to stop, the official stop just ahead.
“It’s in the southbound lane.” With that, Blake winks and boards. We tap in and join the jostle of travelers trying to negotiate London at an unholy hour.
“We could end up absolutely anywhere,” I say. “Shit, Croydon if we’re unlucky.” Not that Croydon’s particularly unlucky, just that it’s very much not where I want to end up tonight. “How about we go to the river for a walk? More of the local tour. Show you some more of the city.”
His eyes dance. Neither of us wants to call it a night quite yet.
We cling to the handrails.
“That’s part of the fun.” Mischief in his eyes, his hand brushes mine, and it’s all I can do to hang on. “Not knowing where we might end up together.”
That’s how we find ourselves along the Thames sometime later, watching the sky shift through a cascade of pink-orange clouds at dawn. We’ve found tea despite all odds and the unsociable hours. We walk along the promenade in easy company, relaxed. The city is ours.
“Wait, wait.” Blake tugs at my hand to stop. We’re at Waterloo Bridge, with the makings of a fantastic sunrise to the east.
Pausing, I take the chance to study him as he marvels at London looking its best with the golden promise of morning light. He pulls out his phone for a couple of pictures, and I follow suit.
“I wish I had my proper camera with me, but it’s amazing what phones can do,” Blake marvels. He glances over at me with a broad smile.
“You’re also into photography?” I ask, surprised. And then I feel rather silly, because it’s obvious that he’s into it to some degree, given the fabulous catalogue of images he has curated on Instagram. And they’re not all selfies, but brilliant photos too of city life and the occasional foray into nature.
“You bet. You too?” Blake looks intrigued, lowering his phone as he studies me in a way that’s thrilling.
I nod and give him a wry smile. “I do, when I can. I have a couple of old film cameras that are fun to play with, see what they can do.”
He brightens at the surprise of this common ground between us. “Oh, I’d love to see your photos sometime. I mean, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course I don’t mind.” The words come out before I have a chance to hesitate, a thrill running through me. “I’d be happy to show you. I mean, I don’t have a fancy setup or anything like that.”
He waves my belated backtracking off, clearly not dissuaded. “It’s not about a fancy camera. Just the way you see things. And I’d love to see the way you see things.”
And we stand on Waterloo Bridge in a pink-gold haze, unable to stop grinning at each other even if we wanted to. Like the promise of everything that might be hanging between us. As though the countries and worlds between us don’t mean a thing at all.
“Oh, and just look at that. It’s the perfect amount of cloud.” Blake sighs happily. “Would you stand against the rail so I can get your photo?”
“Me?” I ask, startled, glancing up at the spectacular skies shifting overhead.
“You,” confirms Blake with confidence. “You’re the most beautiful part of today.”
Somehow I don’t swoon or mock him, which I’d like to think is some kind of growth. Instead, I just laugh and shake my head at his hopeful look, phone in hand.
“Please?” he entreats, in the most appealing way possible—which, for the record, is essentially impossible to say no to for such a simple thing. And I definitely don’t want to say no, even if he is entirely mad to think I’m more beautiful than the sunrise.
“Just this once,” I tease him, leaning against the rail. Over us, the progression of dawn transforms London into something stunning, all warm tones over historic and glass buildings.
Blake grins. “Awesome.”
And I admire him, my expression soft. Thinking how I can be falling into serious like for someone I only met a few days ago. That for all of the differences between us, there might be some common ground too.
He frames the shot, his expression thoughtful as he does. The wind teases us, fresh before the swelter of the day, a fine morning. The river glistens. Traffic trickles past.
We swap places, because it’s only fair. And it’s my turn to take a photo of Blake, his stunning grin and open expression just for me, attention rapt.
Goose bumps cover my arms beneath my light jacket, riding the euphoria of the last few hours as if fatigue is a thing that only other people worry about.
He pulls me in finally for a quick kiss. “Selfie,” Blake declares. With his arm around me, he stretches out a long arm to capture us both, with him trying to sneak in a kiss while we laugh.
“Those’ll be dreadful,” I assure him.
“Pure gold, these.” Delighted, he shows me the photos of us laughing, unguarded. My hair’s tousled by the wind, Blake’s dark hair in compliance due to the skillful application of styling product. Some unstressed Aubrey lives in Blake’s phone. Where did he come from?
“Filming’s going to be tough tomorrow. I guess today,” I say gamely. “You think you’ll be able to get some sleep?”
“Maybe. Sometimes it’s better just to keep going. It’s totally worth the missed sleep, though. This night out with you.”
He gazes intently at me and I meet his gaze just as intently. Then, he brushes his lips against mine. And we melt into each other for a stolen moment beneath the awakening city. We’re all pink-gold sunrise too. And right now, here, Blake is all mine, in a private moment just for us.
Out here, in this early morning London, everything’s ours.