Page 72 of An Unexpected Kind of Love

“Don’t stop.”

He holds me tight, rocking with me, mumbling things into my hair, nice things I can’t bear to listen to, but I can’t make him stop. And then I’m sobbing and he stops and I beg him to continue again.

“Just…don’t be so kind,” I gasp.

And then he’s rougher—and it’s a lot easier to take.

The bites. The scratches. The sharp thrusts.

The way he pins me down and rides me, sweat-slick and urgent.

There’s nothing but us, here and now. No last week. Or next week. Or future or past. We’re just two people, caught in something raw. Something real.

Something that will disappear far too quick. But I want him to know he means something. More than something—he means everything, in such a small time.

Right now, we’re locked together. Fingers dig into skin. Nails leave marks. Blake’s body is mine—and mine belongs to him.

And when he comes explosively, riding me while I cry out with the want of him, coming taut and messy and wild, my nails dig into his arse. I hold him there till he collapses on me, panting. Eventually, he kisses me, and I still gasp.

“Imagine if we could do that all the time,” I say, breathless.

Blake grins at me, equally breathless. “Dreamy.”

“You’d have to get used to my rather shit bed, I’m afraid. Nothing posh in my flat.” I dare glance at him but he’s still smiling. “As you’ve seen, there’s plenty of DIY potential.”

“A real fixer-upper,” Blake teases. “You might need someone who’s good with tools.”

Smiling, I shake my head. “Scraping the bottom of the barrel for jokes already, I see.”

“I’ve been very restrained without a single tool joke so far, in my defense.”

“You’re clearly a man of dignity and honor.”

“You’d patiently put up with my terrible jokes in return for the sofa bed.”

“The foundation on which all brilliant relationships are built. Mutual tolerance,” I drawl. “It’s some hypothetical future.”

In truth, the thought of a future with Blake in it is too overwhelming to think about, too fabulous and too heartbreaking. And he’ll be gone very soon to L.A., a test run before he goes for good.

Blake kisses me thoroughly. I melt against his mouth.

“How long before you need to leave for your flight?” I ask.

“An hour.”

“Better make the best of it,” I tease, running a hand along his admirable chest.

We start all over again, like our lives depend on our urgency, nearly frantic, trying to commit each other to memory before America steals Blake away again.

Soon enough, there’ll be no glorious Blake, no posh hotel. Just me alone in a cramped bedsit, with more memories to keep with the old ones—alone with books for company.

…

Two mornings later, I stop by the coffee shop, which has sustained me since Blake left, thanks to my friend Charlie giving me his key for the loo. I get a flat white and a couple of pastries to take back to Barnes Books. My mini-break is over. Blake’s flying back. I’m sorting out what’s happened with the repairs, plus there’s a courier delivery after 10:00 a.m., so I can’t get to the airport to meet him, though I saw him off the other night. Nothing like swinging full tilt into reality once again.

Already, the morning sun beats down on the city, promising another hot summer’s day. Other merchants on my street are opening up for the day: the antiques shop, a couple of doors down, has their door open for air, old things flanking the entry. A barrister’s bookcase. Vintage wine crates. An oak table in the window.

There’s also a design shop, and I go in for my last dash hope for a gift for Ryan. Otherwise, my backup plan is a book. The colorful shop showcases everything from industrial product design of household things—bespoke tea kettles, whimsical china, silkscreened prints—to the handmade. And amongst all of the things I find a small framed block print of a Soho streetscape not far from their home. This seems safe. So I buy it and have it wrapped, and with relief return to the shop in time for the courier.

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