Page 5 of August's Thief
He’d pushed it between my lips before I had the chance to object. “Food of the gods, Gussie,” he declared with a happy moan. “They make your cock hard.”
Oh Lord.
For the rest of the journey, the car was filled with the alternating sounds of Dawson crunching through brittle sweet shells followed by noisy sucking on soft toffee centres. Describing our date as peculiar was the height of understatement. Even more bizarre, I was on the edge of enjoying myself. And rediscovering a love of humbugs.
The trip ended almost too soon, by the crunching of Dawson’s fourth humbug. Under instruction, I pulled up outside a shabby row of shops, all in darkness and one boarded up.“That’s me,” he said, unclipping his seatbelt. “In the flat up there.” He pointed above the betting shop where a thin yellow light shone behind curtained windows. Twisting awkwardly, he hauled his bags through the gap between our seats.
“Do you need a hand with those?”
“Nah, I’m good.” I caught another flash of white in the gloom of the interior. “Bet you haven’t had a date like this before, have you?” He shoved the bags from his lap to his feet. “It isn’t over yet.”
I felt a twinge of alarm. “Isn’t it?”
He chuckled. “Nah, Gussie. We haven’t had a snog yet.”
A bigger man might have struggled to clamber across the gear stick. Not Dawson. Before I knew what was happening, his skinny arse was bouncing around in my lap. Then he stilled. “Can I touch it?” he whispered. Without waiting for an answer, he brought his hand up to my cheek. The tip of his thumb stroked down the melted, roughened contours, his touch as light as a butterfly wing. “Thanks for the date,” he breathed. “And for rescuing me by paying my fine and all. That you did that means a hell of a lot, but just so you know, that’s not why I’m going to kiss you.”
The thumb smoothed over my ragged ear. Maybe he had a deformity fetish—if I’d learned anything from dating apps, it was that there was a kink for everything. “So why do you want to?”
Now his hands were cupping both cheeks, the good and the bad, and he tilted my face up to his. Violet eyes perused mine. “Because you’re kind and nice, August Angel. My imperfect match.” His plump lips curved in a cheeky grin. “And you and your fancy sweater smell fucking divine.”
Then he kissed me, thoroughly, and that lush mouth was everything it promised.
CHAPTER 3
“He kissed me on the lips,” I said. And flushed. “No… no one ever does that.”
Three wintry days had passed, and I was back on the couch. This time, the box of tissues remained undisturbed.
“You like him,” said CUPID. A statement, not a question.
“Yes. Yes, I do. He’s…” The normal side of my face dimpled into a smile at the memory of Dawson’s long fingers poking from the sleeves of my sweater as he popped a sweet into my mouth. Only Dawson had made that happen in a very long time. Our kiss had tasted of sugar and peppermint; the taste had lingered on my drive home. “He’s not like anyone I have met before.”
I remembered his delicate features too, the neat line of his glossy lips, the jut of aristocratic cheekbones (there was the irony), the velvet pull of those violet eyes. My dimple vanished. “There’s not a cat’s chance in hell the feeling is mutual, of course. Dawson’s funny and clever and stunning. And I’m… not.”
CUPID tutted, a strange, mechanical sound. “Let’s review, shall we, before we jump to conclusions?” The dryschwiffof pages flipping filled the room.
“What are you doing?” I demanded, suspicious.
“I want a femme,” CUPID quoted, in an unnervingly accurate imitation of my own dull, cultured tone. “Someone that likes to fool around with mascara and shit. Was Dawson wearing mascara?”
“Yes.” His beautifully applied make-up was one of the first things I noticed about him. In the pause that followed, I swore I heard a soft chuckle before CUPID continued, “With fabulous eyes that gaze up at me like I’m everything he ever wanted. Like he really needs me. Someone who sees beyond this shitty mess on my face. Who sees beyond my pots of?—”
“Yes, okay, I get your point. Who knows whether he sees beyond my pots of money, but he certainly let me spend it on him. Not that I mind—it’s only money. I have more than I could ever lose.”
More pages riffling. “Ah, here we are. Did Dawson let you dress him like a doll?”
“No! Don’t be ridic—” I stopped, and my face heated some more. “Well, yes. Sort of. But only because his arms were full of shopping bags.”
A pen scratched. “We can tick that one off, then. Anything else?”
I clapped a hand to my head, recalling the scones. And the milk jug.You can be mother.God, this was awkward. “Um… yes. He seemed happy for me to wait on him hand and foot. And yes, his hands are pretty. Very. I can’t comment on his feet, yet.” Encased in tatty Converse, they were petite; I’d spotted that much.
“Something to look forward to,” purred CUPID, evidently enjoying themselves. “The rest of your desires will follow in time. You’ll see.”
I harrumphed. “You say that, but he hasn’t tried to contact me. I’m still not convinced he’s interested. And he certainly doesn’t need me—he seemed extremely capable of looking afterhimself. I think he viewed our trip out as nothing more than a bit of a lark. And a free ride home from the police station via one of the few remaining supermarkets he’s allowed to shop in!”
CUPID let out a long, uncannily human sigh. Followed by another mechanical tut. “You could always go and visit him.You know where he lives. Maybe he hasn’t had time to visit you. Our young Dawson is quite a busy boy.”
