Page 28 of The Meet Queue-t

“Beautiful,” he whispers again.

“My natural hair is mousy brown,” I tell him. I don’t know why—he’s already shown me he likes me for more than my blue hair. But I need him to know the real me.

He half-smiles, still concentrating on my chest. “I like brown too.”

“And I have a lip piercing sometimes.”

His gaze snaps back to my jaw at that, and he brings a finger to the corner of my lip where the hole still sits. “I’ve seen that.”

“Some people don’t like it.”

“I think we’ve established I’m not most people.” His fingers are still impossibly soft against my lip. “Why don’t you wear it?”

“Granny doesn’t like it. After Mum . . . I try and keep the peace at home.”

“Do you live with her?”

“No. But she lives close by and I work for her. It’s a small town,” I explain, feeling self-conscious. He owns his own house, but Mum never owned hers. I’ll inherit a bit of money, but nothing much.

“No pressure, but I don’t mind if you want to wear it.” Removing his glasses with one hand, he takes my fingers and presses them to his eyebrow, where I can feel a small dimple. “You’re not the only one, remember?”

“Do you miss it?”

“Sometimes,” he says, but there’s no bitterness in his smile. “Academia’s a bit of a time suck. You can get lost in it.” He returns his hands to my hips, squeezes. “I think maybe it’s worth getting lost in something else for a change.”

I look down at his turtleneck, which he’s still wearing, and slide my palm across his chest. “On Sunday,” I say. “I’ll need to go home.”

“I know.”

“What—” I have to force myself to keep my voice steady. “What happens then?” I chance a glance up at him.

He’s watching me steadily, still holding me just as tightly. “What do you want to happen?”

“I don’t know,” I say, though it’s a lie. “I don’t want this to end.”

He smiles then, leaning in for a kiss. “Then it doesn’t have to.”

“Just like that? This is crazy.” I laugh as I kiss him back, tugging at his jumper. Like the flick of a switch, the intensity notches up. He helps me remove his turtleneck,then his shirt. Skin. I run my hand along it, marvelling at the smooth softness, the hair. He’s slim built—not massively muscular, but toned enough that my questing fingers encounter muscle. At the same time, his hands explore my body. Breasts, hips, stomach, back. We’re all messy hunger. Hot and slow, then fast and needy. I rock against him again, again, needing clothes to be off, needing more.

He seems to read my mind, or maybe he just thinks the same thing, because he breaks the kiss to say, “Upstairs.”

“Oh thank God. I thought you’d never ask.” I wiggle back off his knees, just managing to steady myself on the arm of the chair. My knees have lost their structural integrity. I’m not sure how I’m going to make the stairs, but I do know I will manage it somehow, even if I have to crawl.

He adjusts himself as he stands, and I watch the motion avidly. I think my mouth waters. I’m so hot for this man, it’s not even a joke. Funny to think when I first saw him, I thought him only passably attractive. And now I’m captivated by every movement, every expression in those brown eyes.

I want his hands on me. I want terrible, nonsensical things, like to wake him up with coffee in the morning and to read all his fantasy novels while he’s marking papers. I want to know what a life lived with Dr Oliver Murphy could be like, though I already think I know. Like your favourite book, a little worn at the edges, filled with a story you’d read again and again.

He takes my hand and leads me upstairs to his bedroom. It’s a small room, neat, but I don’t have time to notice anything but the bed, because he’s pushing me down on it—or maybe I’m pulling him down over me on it. Either way, he settles between my thighs like he was meant to be there, and our kisses turn bruising, intense. We start with nibbles and become devouring.

I offer myself to him.

He gives back for every piece he takes.

My fingers dig into his skin. I want to be gentle, but I want him too much. My hands shake.

“Let’s get naked,” I say, and reach down his body even as we’re lying chest to chest, trying to find his waistband.

He rolls off me and pauses, fingers on the buttons at the top of his jeans. “You’re sure you want this?”

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