‘Go on?’
‘Well. Things I love: universal healthcare, hardly any gun crime, the fact that everyone is funny. Some of them even intentionally.’
‘Ha! And what don’t you like?’
‘Being away from my family. Not being able to buy ranch dressing. Oh, and obviously . . . the weather.’
‘Oh, don’t be a wuss. It’s not that bad.’
‘It’sterrible.’
‘We’ve had a chilly spell lately, that’s all. Anyway, the sun was shining when we walked over here. I’m surprised you didn’t get a tan.’
‘I’d be more likely to get one of those from a 40-watt lightbulb,’ he says.
I’m not sure what it is that makes me finally look at my phone and realise that we seem to have lost hours here.
‘Urgh. I really need to get going,’ I sigh, failing to muster any enthusiasm.
‘Are you kidding me? You have no kids tonight. By rights you should be going dancing, or to a strip club, or an all-night poker game.’
‘Maybe some other time,’ I smile sleepily.
I gather my belongings and slide off my stool as he stands and helps me shrug on my jacket. It’s a strangely old-fashioned gesture and I like it more than it probably deserves. We step outside into a dark, dank night and I lead the way through the amber glow of cobbled backstreets, the sound of distant revellers and music echoing through the city sky.
‘There’s a taxi rank this way,’ I tell him. ‘It’ll be cheaper than an Uber on a Friday night.’
We’ve barely walked twenty feet when I feel spots of rain. I try to pretend it isn’t happening at first, but it gets very heavy, very quickly. I’m getting rapidly soaked until he removes his coat and drapes it over me, so it’s covering my hair. The lining is warm, dry and smells deliciously of him. As our steps quicken, he turns to me, blinking rain out of his eyes.
‘What was it you were saying about the weather?’
I turn to him, peering out from under his coat. ‘Like I said . . .not that bad.’
I’m silenced by a groan of thunder and within moments, the only way to describe the conditions istorrential. One of thosenights when every attempt to avoid a puddle only results in stepping in a bigger one until, eventually, you’re soaked through.
‘Exactly how far away is the taxi rank?’ he yells.
‘About five minutes. Maybe a little more if we’re—’
Before I’ve finished my sentence, he has me by the elbow and is guiding me in the direction of a covered doorway. It’s a small space – not very deep and no more than five feet wide – but enough to provide temporary shelter and give us a moment to catch our breath. I look up, meeting his gaze at the precise moment when it seems to occur to both of us exactly how close we are.
‘You’re still getting wet,’ he says, as he places a hand on my lower back to shuffle me around, shielding me from the rain. His touch is momentary, but I feel his imprint tingling through my clothes even after he’s removed it. Drenched and illuminated by the street lights, he is so damn gorgeous that it makes my chest constrict. The soaked, translucent fabric of his shirt clings to his muscular shoulders. Trails of water snake down the skin on his neck, disappearing into his collar. I feel a sudden urge to trace them with my fingertips, to follow them all the way down.
Instead, I wipe water from my lashes, checking the edge of my hand for mascara.
‘Have I got panda eyes?’
‘No,’ he says gently. Then, in a different, lower voice: ‘Actually, you have beautiful eyes.’
It occurs to me that I should feel cold. My teeth ought to be chattering and goosepimples should be prickling up my back. But none of those are the case. Quite the opposite. I am soaked through – yet I am on fire.
‘You’re getting very wet. Here, step in,’ I whisper, briefly taking him by the wrists and gently pulling him towards me. It’s only then – when he’s as close as he could be without us touching and I’m facing his chest – that I get a full sense of the size of him.The ripples on those forearms, the sheen on his biceps. When I look up, his eyes are unmistakably heavy with desire. He seems to contemplate me for a moment, before he slides both hands around my waist and draws me into him. I tilt my face towards his as some deep, hidden part of me ignites.
The first touch of his lips is whisper soft. I press myself into him, a heartbeat pulsing in my ears, as I submit to the feel of his mouth and the way it moves with mine. The warm wetness of his tongue creates an agonising kind of bliss somewhere in my core, which spreads through my limbs and all the way to my toes. The kiss deepens as my nails dig gently into the flesh on his lower back and I become intensely aware of the sensitive swell of my breasts against his damp shirt.
He moves his lips to my temple, where he kisses me tenderly, then on my forehead, my jaw, that soft dip behind my ear. When our mouths meet again, the kiss becomes urgent. I feel out of control. I slide my palm over the skin at the bottom of his spine, as he releases a soft breath from the back of his throat. Then his hand moves down until he’s squeezing my backside as if it’s the delicious flesh of a ripe peach.
We are fully clothed, we are in public, we are doing little more than kissing. But I feel as if I could explode with desire. And then . . .
