Page 11 of An Unexpected Kind of Love

“I should confess something,” Blake says.

“What’s that?”

“I picked up your card the first time last week when I was in Barnes Books. It’s a really nice store, by the way. I knew your name then.”

I swallow. “Is that right?”

“You know what else I thought?”

“No…”

“That you’re beautiful,” he says simply. “It more than makes up for the prickly customer service situation.”

I just gawp at him. Something in me feels reckless at the tease of this man before me.

“Oh no,” I say instantly. “I’m not beautiful. Not at all. You’ve mistaken me for someone else, I’m afraid. Maybe it’s the accent fooling you, that you evidently have an inherent weakness for the Queen’s English. Or you’re hallucinating with the heat. I’m real, though. And fuck, why am I still talking?”

“Aubrey?”

“Yes?”

Blake stands with enviable confidence, partly backlit by the sun, which outlines a trim physique. “I want to kiss you.”

“Sorry?”

He’s smiling. “I see the way you’re looking at me.”

My cock, which was already in full approval of this situation, stirs. I lick my lips. Caught out. Fair, I’m probably being less than subtle by a train’s length.

We’re close in the confines of the trailer. His hand is still in mine. This is bold. Bold to burst into his trailer, bold to talk to him like this, bold to face the smolder between us that’s grown all day. Channeling up some long-forgotten Aubrey, a younger, wilder me, I give in to the tease of Blake.

In the end, I’m the one who leans in, unable to resist the torment of him any longer.

Blake brushes his lips against mine, light at first. It takes approximately two seconds for that to heat up like the blaze of the afternoon outside. Despite the air-con, I’m on fire.

It’s not like I’m a stranger to men, to hookups, to tempestuous encounters. However, that all feels like a long time ago, like a life that belonged to someone else. Like there’s life before Eli, and life after. Like a fictional Aubrey who’s free of obligation. Of heartache.

Fuck Eli.

Blake groans softly too. Our kisses are hungry, seeking, clumsy. I run a hand along that fabulous chest, over that well-toned stomach, and south to the taut fabric at his groin.

“Do you…?” I ask.

His hand pressing on my shoulder is answer enough.

I go to my knees. My mouth follows the path of my hand, teasing him through his shirt. Till I press the outline of his cock through his jeans and the strain of him makes me feel alive, like I’m high, like I’m someone daring. His desire is intoxicating. To think he’s responding like that because of me. I shiver at the very idea.

The last man was a Grindr offering, so brief and so quick that I can’t remember what he looked like, never mind his name. He barely looked at me, seeking release while I wanted human contact again.

At least Blake’s paying enough attention to know my name.

With unsteady fingers, I unfasten his belt, his jeans. I shove down his boxers and jeans to his knees. His cock is glorious, like the rest of him, already seeping pre-cum that glistens in the sunlight hitting us, bright together in an otherwise dark room.

He groans as I press my mouth around his hot stiffness, filling me.

And I give in to that hunger, that desperation, that seldom seen and long forgotten part of me. The part that says fuck caution—live dangerously.

Live now.

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