Page 37 of An Unexpected Kind of Love

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?”

---