Page 7 of Pansies

The man folded his arms tightly across his chest, hugging his own elbows. It wasn’t exactly a pose that said,Come and get it, big boy. “I’m right here. I’m waiting. Why don’t you show me just how gay you think you are?”

This was weird. This was wrong. Totally weird and totally wrong. But it was also exactly what Alfie had wanted since the second he’d laid eyes on those narrow hips, the fragile spine, and the hinted mysteries of that taut, restless body. Well, notthisexactly. It would have been a pretty niche fantasy. But the possibility of…something.

He took a few steps forward. Until he was standing sociably close. Then intimately close.

Since being gay had become undeniable, he’d had one serious relationship and a bunch of hookups. They’d basically been okay. Nothing special. In the moment, they’d made him feel realer. Afterwards, not so much. And he was still a bit shaky on how they worked.

Women were easier. There were rules about who did what. Which tongue went where.

With guys, it was like meeting someone for the first time and not being sure whether you were supposed to hug or shake hands. An embarrassing tangle waiting to happen.

He’d also never tried to kiss anyone who seemed so absolutely opposed to being kissed. While also apparently inviting it.

He slipped a hand around the back of the man’s neck, sliding gently beneath the fall of his hair. He wasn’t quite sure what he was supposed to do next, but as it turned out, he didn’t haveto think about doing anything. Because everything just sort of happened.

For a moment, he was standing there, befuddled, touching skin that felt ridiculously, impossibly tender, and wondering if maybe it was acceptable to do a bit of hair tugging, since there seemed no way to get to the kissing bit without a pretty significant change of angle.

But then the guy moaned. Actually moaned. Soft and helpless and fucking gorgeous. And he rocked forward, falling against Alfie’s body like he’d lost the ability to do anything else. His hands clutched at Alfie’s shoulders, then clung, clumsy-awkward, just a little bit desperate, and Alfie suddenly felt about ten feet tall and strong and right and wanted, and from there it was all effortless. All instinct.

He dragged the other man close, maybe a bit rougher than he meant to be. Made a snug little cradle with his spare arm. Got him tucked into it. And then he was bringing his head down, and the guy—shit, he didn’t even know his name—was tilting his head back, and there was this moment when all there was in the whole fucking universe was a pale, moonlit mouth parting in anticipation, in welcome, and then they were kissing.

Kissing like Alfie had always imagined it was supposed to be. Movie-star-magic-silver-screen-fireworks-in-the-sky kissing. Endless and restless, like the sea beating in the distance. Like listening to a shell, except it was everything and everywhere, the taste of salt water rich and sharp between their lips.

And a strange sort of sweetness too. It took him a moment to place it.

“Hey,” he whispered, breaking the kiss. “Hey, you smell of flowers.”

The other man was shaking—shaking, really shaking—in hisarms, his fingers curled urgently against Alfie. A rock climber trying not to fall. “Take me somewhere.”

“I’ve got a room at the—”

“I don’t care, take me somewhere.”

This was another terrible idea. He was supposed to be at a wedding.

But the next thing Alfie knew, they were in his car, zooming back to the hotel. It was a five-minute drive, but it seemed to go on forever. And Alfie’s cock couldn’t decide if it was nervous or excited.

Which pretty much went for the rest of him as well.

He stole occasional glances at his passenger. Each time they passed beneath a streetlamp, the sudden glare would light up his face, and Alfie would get a fresh shock at the sheer loveliness of him. It was like recognising somebody from a dream you once had.

“Look, mate, what’s your name?”

The man turned his head slightly. It was too dark to see his expression properly, but Alfie thought he caught the twisty glint of something that might have been a smile. Not a very happy one. “Fen.”

“Fen?”

“Fen.”

He wanted to ask more, like what kind of a name was Fen, except in a polite way, but they’d arrived.

He locked his car and led the way to his room, too busy worrying about running into someone from the wedding party to worry about the lack of conversation. Besides, what was he supposed to say? Fen very obviously wasn’t interested in talking.

It all made him feel a bit weird. But not weird enough to stop.2

The Little Haven was probably the poshest hotel in South Shields. For a Londoner, however, it was embarrassing. Barely a step up from a Travelodge, with its teal-checked carpet and its 1970s furniture. Alfie had cringed when he first saw it. Then cringed at his cringe.

Down south, everyone saw him as this bluff, solid northern bloke. It set him apart from the rest of the equity capital markets team, but it was also the foundation of his success. Clients trusted him. His opponents feared him. And he was very, very good at what he did.

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