“Are you hungry, or just eyeing me up?” Nero said without looking around. “’Cause if it’s the first, I’ve got just the thing.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.” Nero slid a pizza out of the oven and beckoned Lenny forward. “Spelt and spinach, your favourite.”
And it was. The wheat-free pizza base TST had fast become famous for was to die for, and paired with spinach, manchego, and Spanish manzanillo olives, it was the closest thing to heaven Lenny had ever eaten outside of a tub of ice cream. Lenny tore off a piece and stuffed it in his mouth. “It’s almost like you knew I was coming.”
“Almost.” Nero expertly slid a few more pizzas and calzones out of the furnace-hot oven. “Or I might’ve seen you dancing up the road in a world of your own.”
Oh. Lenny should’ve known. While he liked to meander through life with his head in the clouds, Nero was a man who missed nothing, and Lenny had yet to truly surprise him. “Are you going to be done by the time I eat this?”
“Depends how fast you eat it.”
“You know how fast I can eat. Don’t play games with me. You promised you’d come home with me tonight.”
“Then why are you asking when I’ll be done?” Nero finally looked at Lenny, and his eyes blazed. “Eat your dinner, birthday boy. I’m all yours.”
“It’s not my birthday till tomorrow.”
“So?”
God, I love him. Lenny swallowed a blissed-out sigh and walloped back his pizza while Nero handed the kitchen to Jolen, who’d come over from Pippa’s to be Nero’s second sous chef. Then they left together, walking hand-in-hand through the packed restaurant they’d made their own. Urban Soul had built the foundations, but there was no doubt that the Stray Tiger had evolved into a vision that encapsulated Nero’s soulful, seasonal menu and merged it with Lenny’s eclectic artwork splashed on every available surface. The pizza restaurant combined with the artisan bakery had become one of Vauxhall’s most popular food spots, and Lenny couldn’t deny how proud he was of that fact.
Nero let them into the upstairs flat—a cool, white space that was still devoid of many creature comforts, aside from the mountain of Lenny’s books that Tom had delivered a few days ago. Moving day had been enlightening. It was only when they’d packed up to leave Shepherd’s Bush that Lenny had realised Nero had even fewer worldly possessions than he did, something he was planning to rectify if they ever stopped fucking long enough to go shopping, which, apparently, wasn’t happening today.
Lenny shut the door behind him and unbuttoned his coat. Nero helped him, and made short work of stripping them both. Then he stood back and flatted himself against the wall behind him, arms open wide, giving Lenny his cue to take over.
He wants me to fuck him. Lenny’s pulse quickened. The first time he’d pushed Nero back on the bed and eased inside him had been an emotional night. Nero had cried, and Lenny had held him tight, and taught him that pain wasn’t inevitable, and that the void in his heart could be filled with love. Since that night, Lenny had fucked Nero over and over, and it just got better. Nero had proved a versatile lover—a rough top, a submissive bottom, and everything in between—and tonight he was Lenny’s for the taking.
They stumbled to the bedroom, the only sounds in the flat their tripping footsteps and breathless gasps. Lenny’s cock throbbed as Nero knelt before him and took him in his mouth, and he saw stars as teeth scraped skin.
He couldn’t take it for long. Groaning, he tugged Nero to his feet and kissed him roughly, pushing backward to the bed. They tumbled onto it, scrambling, rolling, grabbing any part of each other they could reach, until Lenny had Nero where he wanted him, on his stomach, his arms behind his back, and his face mushed into the pillow. Nero liked it like this, slow and rough, Lenny’s cock thrusting into him, driving him into the mattress until he came so hard Lenny briefly feared something was wrong.
After, they lay panting, tightly entwined in each other, while Nero dozed and Lenny gazed out over the city. It hadn’t taken long for Vauxhall to feel like home, but that wasn’t a surprise. Cass could call him a stray as much as he liked, but holed up the bakery with Nero in his arms, Lenny was the happiest bloke in the world. And finally, he was home.
Lenny scowled, looking, thanks in part to his turquoise hair, like a stroppy teenager. “Where are we going?”
“Berkhamsted,” Nero said. “Now get on the fucking train.”
Lenny glowered some more, but he got on the train and flung himself into an empty seat. “I don’t see why we have to go all the way to the Dragonfly to see Gloria. She comes to see Efe often enough.”
Nero shrugged. He was running out of things to say about his fictitious meeting with the head chef of Urban Soul’s Berkhamsted bistro, and Lenny’s obvious hurt feelings that Nero would do such a thing on his birthday were hard to take. “She’s got those jerked sweet potatoes she brought us last week on the menu this week if it’s any consolation.”
Lenny sighed. “It shouldn’t be, but it is.”
“I don’t get why you’re so upset. You said you didn’t want to do anything tonight.”
“Uh-huh.” Lenny pulled his phone from his pocket and became instantly engrossed in the Urban Soul Twitter account he’d taken over from Jake.
The conversation was apparently done. Nero left him to it and sat back in his seat, contemplating a twenty-minute catnap, but Lenny’s conciliatory hand on his thigh—squeezing—kept him awake, like Lenny did most nights when they crawled into bed.
A bolt of heat zipped through Nero’s veins. He’d always known he’d get off on having a man inside him, but that man being Lenny? Jesus. The only thing that came close was when they switched—
“Nero?”
“Hmm?” Nero looked down at Lenny, who’d lolled his head on Nero’s shoulder. “Sorry, what?”
Lenny laughed. “And you call me a dreamer. I said, ‘Is it Berko we get off at, or Hemel Hempstead?’”
