Page 70 of One Last Try

“I don’t speak English, sorry—”

“What’s that, Viv? We’ll be right there—”

Tom and Bryn speak simultaneously, and Daisy’s suddenly very preoccupied mopping up non-existent spilled beer from the bar top.

Owen leans closer to me. His chest presses against my arm and his breath caresses my cheek. “They know about us?”

I can’t work out if it’s a question or a statement.

“Uh . . .” I start to say, but Daisy cuts in again.

“Lando saw you guys doing boy gay stuff in the showers, so naturally he’s told the entire village. I’m surprised you didn’t see the poster on the community board.”

“What?” Owen whips his head up to the corkboard next to the door. “Lol,” he deadpans when he realises she’s taking the piss.

“But yeah, everyone knows. Except Roger. We thought it’d be funny to let him figure that one out on his own. Ange knows, though.”

Owen puffs out a long, slow breath. “I guess we’ve only got ourselves to blame.” He doesn’t seem the slightest bit bothered by everyone knowing, and I decide to take his lead. Despite my reservations about . . . people, I like this little community of his.

“Daze, I’m going on my ten-minute ciggy break,” Owen says.

“You don’t smoke,” she replies, narrowing her eyes.

He ignores her. “Mathias, would you like a tour of my trophy room?”

I laugh. “Is that a euphemism?”

“Yes.” Owen’s face is almost completely impassive, except for the tiny glint in his eye.

“Gross!” Daisy shouts.

I’m already on my feet and marching behind the bar towards what I assume is the entrance to the flat upstairs.

As soon as Owen closes the door to his tiny bedsit behind us, he’s on me. Mouth claiming mine, pinning me against the wall. He whips his apron off and tosses it onto the cluttered coffee table.

“I’ve been thinking about this all—” I start.

Owen cuts me off. “No time for talking. Got ten minutes. You can text me whatever it is you need to say tomorrow from Wales.”

“Sure—” I begin to say, but Owen slams his mouth onto mine again.

“This needs to come off,” he says, fingering the buttons on my shirt and breaking his no talking rule. “I don’t want to make a mess.”

I don’t unbutton it; I just pull it off over my head.

Owen exhales in a rush. “Fuck, Wild Card, how are you so . . . How did I get so lucky?” He doesn’t give me a chance to answer, not that I have anything to reply with, before kissing me again.

He pauses the kiss to whip off his own shirt, but our lips are on each other before it hits the floor, and he’s grappling in the general area of my belt. I mirror his movements, undoing his, neither of us are looking at what we’re doing.

Seconds later, my cock is in his hand, his is in mine. Our fingers knock together. Our mouths are connected, but we don’t kiss. It’s too frantic for kissing, so we just jerk each other and swallow down each other’s moans.

I’m already at breaking point. I wrap my hand around his nape and whine into his mouth as wet heat blossoms over my fist. Moments later, Owen follows me over that crest.

And then were laughing about how much mess we’ve made, and Owen has to change his jeans. I clean the waistband at my hip with a damp sponge andwe head back downstairs with ruddy cheeks, messed-up hair, and pupils blown wide.

27

Saturday 26th April 2025

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