Page 36 of An Unexpected Kind of Love

“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.

“Talentedandthoughtful. You’re a great catch,” he jokes as we head out for the short walk to the rock club. “Now, whereareyou 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.

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