Dylan had forgotten that. The deli that belonged to Angelo’s family made the best paninis in east London, but Dylan couldn’t picture him slaving over the press or wrestling with the ancient coffee machines it was famous for.
For better or worse, he could only feel Angelo’s hands all over him, gripping him, lifting him while his thick cock drove every last drop of?—
“How long have you lived here?”
Dylan blinked and handed Angelo a bottle. “Six months. I lived in Vauxhall for a few years before that.”
A small smile fleetingly warmed Angelo’s face. “So you weren’t around this way for a while then?”
“Um, not as often. Why?”
“Because that explains why we didn’t run into each other at the club. I worked there for a year a while back, before I moved to New York.”
“I thought you said you hadn’t been here since you were fifteen?”
“No, I said I hadn’t worked in the deli since I was fifteen. I danced with the English National Ballet for four years?—worked at the club for some of that. It kept me out of trouble, believe it or not.”
“Get in trouble a lot, do you?”
The ghost of a grin returned, laced with the kind of self-loathing Dylan had often seen in Sam when he talked about his childhood. “I’m not in troublenow,” Angelo said. “Or am I? You still look pretty pissed off.”
Dylan schooled his features. “I’m not pissed off. I’m fucking bemused. Aren’t you? What were you thinking when you recognised me this morning? Come to think of it,howdid you recognise me this morning?”
Angelo licked his lips, his tongue moving slowly... sensually as it moistened the skin. Dylan was mesmerised and caught off guard when Angelo answered him.
“It was your voice.”
“But we didn’t speak at the club.”
“Yes, we did. I told you the safe word and you said you wouldn’t need it, and then, uh, later... you told me your name.”
