Page 17 of Second Song

I mean, there’s Liam.

He strides away, and I’ve reacted instead of thinking twice today already, first when that lamb took a nosedive and then when I saw a small boy’s panic. Now I move again on instinct and hope it’s third time lucky.

I hammer down the stairs to catch him, and if they creak, I don’t hear it. I only hear a clock ticking, but not for an interview. This time, I race to catch an ex-soldier with long legs that can cover ground a lot faster than me, but once that bell tinkles behind me, I gallop across cobbles and almost skid at the entrance to that alley.

“Wait!”

Liam doesn’t.

“Stop!”

He keeps moving, long strides loping, already almost at the car park where I glimpse a white wave decal and hear a running engine. His friend must be waiting for him in Liam’s camper. Why that spurts extra petrol into my tank, I can’t say. All I know is that for a second time today, I bellow at him.

“Liam!”

This time, he hears me.

He swings around before glancing over his shoulder at the car park and at who waits for him there, I guess. Then he faces me full-on, straightening as if coming to attention, and I don’t only spot a ghost of a smile as I close the distance. What I see now is complex, a tangle that I unravel while there are still a few steps left between us, and yes, this alleyway is shadowed, but I spy something almost bashful in his eyes, and my chest seizes.

He’s not sure if I’m pleased to see him.

I am. So pleased. Of course, that comes with a burst of fuckwit laughter, but at least he joins in.

All of those emotion cards must have registered with me in that classroom. It’s so easy to see his relief then, and it sucks that he’s in shadow instead of underneath a spotlight. Or in front of a camera—I’d add this real smile to that deck so every single kid at Glynn Harber got to see what happy can also look like.

I have to make do with grabbing the front of his T-shirt and pulling him closer, which isn’t my usual style—almost-virgin, remember, even if I’ve already kissed him. I’m more likely to run in the opposite direction of anything more, or search for hidden cameras, but the heat of his chest under my knuckles is just as warming as this smile edged in shyness.

Of course, I blurt something stupid instead of hello or thank you. “Why didn’t you stop when I shouted?” That comes out so fucking huffy, but his smile only widens.

“Didn’t hear you.” He looks down, focussed on my fistful of desert-camo cotton, but he doesn’t pull free or repeat what he last said while grass tickled me on the clifftop. I couldn’t let go of him then. I can’t let go now either. Instead, I wet my lips, and he watches.

Watches?

He’s transfixed, captivated, but maybe I’m under a spell because I’ve never found breathing harder. He leans in first this time, and if that wasn’t a clear go signal, him holding me by both hips is. He’s close enough that our feet dovetail while tourists pass the alley entrance, but neither of us lets go.

I don’t want to.

I want to kiss him again, only for longer. I do it right here, out in public, and finally get a taste of triumph.

For a hard man, his mouth is a soft prize, and fuck old nerves that prickle or my chest that chooses now to constrict tightly. It doesn’t matter if performance anxiety steals my voice here. I don’t need to speak to loop an arm around his neck and draw him closer.

Have I ever wanted someone this much or this fast? Ever needed them to kiss me back more than right now? I push against him, my mouth an open offer that he takes, and it’s fucking epic.

His kiss is hot like the skin under his T-shirt, his tongue an invasion I don’t retreat from. If anything, I fight for more, both of my hands in his hair now, his fade prickling my palms, longer strands clenched between my fingers, and he lets out a sound that rumbles through me. I’m half hard even before he hefts me against a wall, muscling me exactly where he wants me. Apparently, that’s with my legs far enough apart that he can get between them, and forget retreats or invasions, we’re on the same side, no white flags needed.

He hefts me even higher, grinding, and when I hook my legs around him, there’s all that strength I remember. That power. I feel it again when he almost slips on these slick, damp cobbles but still doesn’t drop me. The movement does bump my glasses against his nose, but he only sets me down while still kissing, then lifts my glasses away from my face, stealing my vision.

The last time I let that happen, my bottom became headlines. I should reel back and take my glasses with me, but here? With him? I surge forward, and what we did before wasn’t kissing. It doesn’t compare with his tongue being this deep in my mouth, and mine so deep in his, and I don’t care if it leaves me gasping. So what if I never breathe again? Oxygen doesn’t matter, and neither do more tourists chatting as they enjoy an unseasonably warm April evening. At least they don’t matter to me, but Liam slides my glasses back into place and issues a quiet order.

“Stay right there.”

He heads off, disappearing into the car park for one minute. Two. After three, my cock starts to deflate. So do I.

He’s not coming back.

He does, thank fuck, only not to pick up where we left off. He takes my hand. His is rough, from that rope I guess, and he tugs me. Not towards the car park. He steers me a few steps towards the harbour while asking me something it takes a moment to parse. “You’ve got that room until tomorrow?”

This is where I should come to my senses—where I should take a step back instead of plunging headfirst, but here I am, Rowan Byrn, a prizewinner at making bad decisions.

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