Page 16 of Mayfly

“You’re trying to hide something.”

“You might not like what I have to say.”

“Or it might be exactly what I want to hear.”

“Are you asking me to—”

“Just fucking do it.”

And so I do.

I grip the side of his neck and instantly feel his erratic pulse against my palm. His leather gloves scrape against the rough wool of my jacket, and my heart pounds like a war drum in my chest.

There’s no hesitation in our collision. My lips crash into his and our teeth click together, because there’s nothing polite about it. It’s hard, frenzied, and masculine.

His hands slip beneath my coat and dig at my waist.

I drive my fingers into his hair so I can grab it tight and pull him closer.

I’ve never felt this before; this instinct to consume and be consumed.

A tremor runs through him, and I moan into his mouth as the world falls away, leaving nothing behind but me and Curren, and the taste of jam and cream.

“Jesus, Jude,” he mutters, almost incoherent.

“I want you to—” I begin. But before I can continue, he abruptly pulls away.

“Fuck!” He snatches up his bag, and with long, fast strides, he leaves me alone on the bench with my hands clenched into fists, as I try to catch my breath. Not another word spoken. Not even a glance back in my direction. And like a coward, I just watch him walk away. Because deep down, it's what I expected him to do.

“Goddamn it, Marius! If this phone call doesn’t end with another five-thousand Euro in my bank account, I swear to god I’ll reach through the receiver and break your fucking neck!”

“Really, Curren. Is that any way to talk to me?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“But how can I shut upandtalk to you?”

This isn’t good. It can’t be. Marius has never broken routine and called me early. I always get my second call at ten pm local time. And now he's calling me out of the blue at one-thirty in theafternoon, interrupting the single most self indulgent moment of my entire fucking life.

“Plans have changed.”

“The fuck?”

“It’s out of my hands.”

“This is the last phone, you—”

“Save the insult. Do you still want the job or not?”

I grunt into the phone. He already knows the answer. I didn’t come all this way not to get paid.

But that kiss…

As Marius continues, I reach up and graze my lips with my fingertips. Rubbing them together, I feel a raspberry seed when I look at my gloves, I see residual jam and cream smeared over the leather, and my stomach sinks to my feet. Nausea, and an overwhelming urge to strip all the skin from my body vibrates through me.

They're so dirty.

I’mso dirty.

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