Page 52 of On Circus Lane

I want to beat my chest in satisfaction. Instead, I zip his coat and bend to pick up his hat from where it fell on the ground. I pull it down over the dark waves of his hair, smoothing errant strands away and looking into his clear eyes.

Then I walk him back to the apartment, and even though we part at our bedroom doors, a part of me stays with him as I lie in bed watching the snow tumble past my windows and thinking of his smile.

“Twat,” I say to myself, but it doesn’t stop my sappy smile.

Chapter Seven

BEE

Icome awake slowly in my nest of duvet and blankets. I lie for a second, hearing loud voices and laughter from somewhere in the apartment. I move my head cautiously, expecting the usual hangover, but it’s not there to my surprise. My head aches dully, and I feel sluggish but that’s nothing a hot shower and some ibuprofen won’t cure.

I turn my head toward the window and then grab my glasses. Edinburgh has become a magic city of ice and snow overnight. Snowflakes come down, first drifting, then coming down heavily.

The memory of last night returns in a flash, and I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face. The two of us alone in the snow on an old street at three in the morning.The kiss. I stretch, feeling my cock stir. If Tom shags like he kisses, I’m going to be very lucky. And I will be. He wants me, and although he’s holding me off for some reason, it makes the game all the better. If I’d known abstinence was so sexy, I’d have done it years ago rather than shagging most of central London.

I lick my lips at the thought of him on top of me—that long body, his easy strength and lazy smiles in my bed.

Shoving my hand into my boxers, I draw out my cock. It’s already hard, the head glossy with precome. I fist my length, feeling the sparks run through me, and then look for the lube. After grabbing the bottle from the drawer of the bedside table, I squeeze out a stream over my cock and then stroke down the length, spreading the liquid until the glide becomes sublime.

I don’t usually think of anything when I’m wanking, only the feel of my hand and how quickly I can get myself off. It’s the utilitarian part of my sex life. But today an image comes into my head—lurid and in technicolour—of Tom naked in bed with me. His body is lean and muscular, and he moves between my spread legs, lowering his weight onto me and kissing me hard.

I shouldn’t think of him. That’s not good.

I stroke harder, but in my mind, it’s him touching me, pinching my nipples and biting and sucking at my neck, where I’m insanely sensitive. In my head, I wrap my legs around him, feeling his cock rubbing against mine, while in reality, I’m cupping my balls with one hand while the other one moves fast on my cock, theschlick-schlicksounds loud and obscene in the quiet room.

I squeeze my sac gently. I’m close, but Tom is still in my head, and I see him inside me, my heels on his arse as I urge him to move faster and faster.

“Harder.” I breathe the word out loud, my hand now moving frantically in long, firm strokes, the head popping out of my fist and then back in. I release my balls and slide one finger down to my hole. I stroke it, spreading lube, and then poke one fingertip inside.

In my head, Tom throws his head back, shouting as he comes, and that image is enough. White lightning travels down my spine, my balls draw up, and I come over the sheets in a sticky mess, feeling my toes curl with the strength of the orgasm.

After a few seconds, I grab a tissue from the box on the bedside table, clean myself briskly, and then relax back into the sheets, satisfaction running through me like honey.

Then I stiffen. “What are youdoing?” I say out loud.

I don’t get involved with blokes beyond their names and sexual preferences, and sometimes, I don’t bother with the first. Yet here I am, thinking of Tom constantly, and not just about his body and what it could do to me. No, I’m remembering his smile, the easy way he has about him, the charm that’s heady because it’s so natural. You can’t help being drawn to Tom. He’s like a very attractive magnet.

“It’s just because he hasn’t shagged me yet.” The words echo in the empty room filled with snowlight. “Once that’s done, he’ll be like all the rest.”

Nodding in satisfaction, I leap out of bed and head for the shower.

Half an hour later, I emerge from my room dressed in jeans and a jumper I found at the vintage shop Tom took me to. It’s a mod racing jumper, black and close-fitting, with a red and white stripe running down the right-hand side. I feel good in it.

I open the lounge door and blink when I walk into a wall of noise. Everyone is already here, and I feel a sense of chagrin because, for the last two days, it’s just been Tom and me in the morning. My eyes home in on him like they’re laser-focused. He sits on the comfy armchair, Freddy perched on its arm. Tom’s wearing faded jeans and a grey bouclé jumper with a shirt underneath. His boots are on his feet and unlaced, which makes him look like a lumberjack I saw in a porn film once. My gaze meets his and holds.

I feel a sudden sense of awkwardness, as though everyone is observing us. Being the focus of attention is not my thing and never has been. Tom tends to shatter my composure, and this morning my already precarious calm becomes even more shaky.

Luckily, Ivy waves me over. “Alright?” I ask, smiling as I slump into the space beside her on the sofa, and wishing I could vanish into the fabric. “Have I kept you?”

“Well, it would have been nice to get an early start,” Steven starts to say, but everyone talks over him with a chorus of “No.”

Sal grins at me. “We were just talking about what everyone is doing today.”

“Well, I’ll be leaving for my conference tomorrow, so Jack and I need some alone time,” Steven says, flicking at a thread on his jumper. He looks as put together as ever.

“You’re going to a conference?” I ask without thinking.

His gaze becomes steely. “I do distinctly remember telling you that I was working on the last day of the holiday, Bee.”

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