Life’s too short for that kind of brooding. Or wondering why the urge to brood over a FlingIt connection has suddenly struck me.
I lock up and leave my house. Brave the icy pavements all the way to the pub two streets away, contemplating why he picked this place when everything about him screams that he’s not out. My profile doesn’t lie when it says I’m discreet as fuck, but this dude seems jumpy.
And hey, maybe LeLionDuBois96 didn’t even read my profile.
Plenty don’t bother.
And yet plenty do, which gets me thinking that maybehedid, and for no reason whatsoever that fecking haunts me until I’m back in the app like I never left.
He’s not online anymore.
And he’s on the move, according to his distance stamp.On his wayto the quiet corner table I’ve parked myself at in the pub. At least, I hope he is. I hopea lot, and it’s an odd feeling. I like sex. I like people. But I’ve never craved a connection as much as I apparently want this one. As much as I apparently wanthim.
I’m not much of a drinker. I leave my cider untouched and tap into my app profile. Read the nonsense I tossed up there a few months back without much caring who read it.
I see it all now with new eyes.
Criticaleyes.
HotCraic97?
Jesus. What kind of clown was I to pick that?
The same clown who posted a wank pic for funsies, that’s who. A pic I’ve almost forgotten about until it’s right there, filling my screen, and it’s enough to put me off dick for life.
Yeah, right.
But still. What a knob. And not the good kind. Maybe I should just post my face at this point, but I have too many reasons not to. Regulations. Professionalism. Station gossip. Take your fecking pick. Either way, I’m about to cringe myself into a stroke. So I stop glaring at myself and tap into him instead. LeLionDuBois96. Match the carved shoulder pic with the dark-haired beauty over the back fence, even as doubts begin to creep in.
What if it’s not him?
Worse, what if it is and he’s scrolled my profile thinking I’m some cocky twat who talks like that in real life?
You do talk like that.
“Hey.”
I glance up, startled. And there he is.
Tall and dreamy, witheyes like burnt caramel and a smile so faint I almost lurch up and reach for it.
“Hey there. All right?”
He nods. Slowly. “Want a drink?”
“I’m good.”
Another nod and he retreats.
Walks away.
To the bar, thank the Lord. Think I’d expire if he left, but I’m grateful for the few minutes his absence gives me to compose myself. Cos fuck me, he’s even hotter up close than I remember.
And that bod? Clothed in simple jeans and a dark jacket, there’s not much on display. But as he makes his way back, sets his drink on the table and shucks his coat, I get my first look athis corded forearms. And I’mgone.Stunned stupid, save for the low heat roiling to life in my gut.
He’s not here to fuck.
Gentle, remember?
