‘Yes, I fucking want to.’
It’s hard to not be entirely intoxicated by the smile that radiates across his face, the sheer pleasure and relief all mixed into one as his hand reaches for my cheek, his fingers tangling in my hair as he strokes away the redness, marvels at me in a way that makes me feel as remarkable and extraordinary as one of his sculptures.
‘Thank God,’ he murmurs and we collide.
I know as soon as our lips meet that this is how people should always kiss. The whisky still lingers on our tongues, smoky and deep, and I can feel myself getting drunk on it. His lips break from my mouth and for a moment I think he’s going to pull away again until he replaces my lips with my neck. Maybe I should be the one to stop this? Maybe it’s my turn to have a conscience? But I can’t fathom how I can give this up now.
He lets go of my face, moves his grip to my waist, pulling our bodies closer still. This is different; before it was a kiss, now there’s more. He brings his lips back to mine and I groan at how good it feels, how every inch of my body hums, like it is trembling with an energy I never knew I possessed. His breath is becoming shorter, mine too. The elation of finally doing this is replaced by something else: longing, a desire for more.
He spins me round, presses me against the bar. My hands slide his jacket off his shoulders and he shrugs the last of it free from his body, leaving me to work at the buttons on his shirt. I manage three before he grows impatient and tugs it over his head. My hands go straight to his arms, feeling his warm skin under my fingertips. I press my lips into his neck in little staccato pulses down to his collarbone.
He senses the disparity between our nakedness and his hands tug at my t-shirt until it is whisked clean from my body.
‘I lied earlier,’ he mutters into my ear, his hands tracing their way around my bra strap. ‘I was very interested in what your tits looked like.’ He chuckles and it sends something spiralling inside of me. I kiss him harder than I had before, faster, my tongue finding his. He groans. My finger traces a line from his chest to his navel and down until I come to the buckle of his belt. I pull the end until it releases, and I rest my thumb on the hem of his jeans. I feel him hardening below me. And I want him. I want this.
And then Archie rings.
Chapter 23
‘Finally. I was aboutto send a search party.’ Archie’s voice brings us both down to reality with a stark, treacherous little crash. Florian brushes his arm past mine, an innocent action but it still makes my cheeks sting.
Archie is standing by the sink, washing up the dinner plates. ‘Sorry, didn’t realise we’d been gone so long.’ I linger by the entrance, watching both men in my apartment feeling terrifyingly responsible for them both.
‘Where’s Inés?’ Florian hulks himself down on the sofa, his eyes darting around as if she might be hiding behind the table.
‘She left about twenty minutes ago, said she had work in the morning.’
‘Oh.’ Florian looks a little shocked. I think we were both banking on letting Inés dominate the remainder of the evening until we could both go.
‘Not a problem though, sure we can still have a nice time without her. You get the bottle?’
‘Here.’ I pull it out of my jacket pocket.
‘Well, open it then.’ Archie laughs at my awkwardness. ‘I’ll get the glasses, go sit down.’ I do as he says and choose the armchair; it feels perfectly isolating and separate. Florian looks up at me; his hair is messier than it had been when we had left the apartment an hour ago and his fringe is falling over his eyebrows. He looks slightly apologetic and for a moment I wonder if he wants to take it all back, but with one hand he gestures for me to breathe, to calm down and I know that he is simply thinking of a way that we can both get out of this evening with the least amount of damage.
We had walked back in this kind of heavy silence, drunk from touch, bodies aching and heavy from unfulfilment. When we neared the apartment, I had slipped my hand into his and pulled him to a stop.
‘I won’t say anything,’ Florian had answered before I even had the chance to ask. I knew I needed to tell Archie, but tonight wasn’t the right time or place to break his heart. So, I had nodded gratefully, smoothed down my hair and then his hair and took a deep breath before climbing up the flights of stairs back to him.
Archie pours out three measures and hands them around the table,
‘Cheers.’ He proffers up his glass and Florian and I awkwardly extract ourselves from our seats to meet him.
‘Santé.’ Florian offers his native alternative, but it feels wrong in this language too. Archie downs his measure with a theatrical gasp at the end and then roots into the cabinet behind us, pulling out a pack of cards I hadn’t realised were there.
‘A game?’
‘Of what?’
‘Strip poker?’ It takes a while for the joke to make itself evident on Archie’s face, it’s like there’s a lag as he looks up at me with a blank face until a small smirk appears. ‘Jesus, I’m only joking.’
‘Sorry, it’s just late, I’m tired.’ I make my move, pray that he might get the hint. I look to Florian who positions himself at the corner of the sofa, ready to leap up and grab his coat.
‘Bullshit.’
‘Sorry?’ I look at him, startled.
‘The game, a round of bullshit.’ Archie gestures to the cards, and I notice how hard my heart is pounding. I look at Florian who is once again miming at me to calm down.
