Page 68 of Commitment Issues
“I’m still not sure. The signs are looking good, according to my Prof., but—” My words are cut off by Cosmo, running through the kitchen, lipstick smeared and wig akimbo, being chased by a guy in a gorilla mask brandishing a banana. “Oh God, sorry. It’s, erm, probably not the kind of party you’re used to.”
Elliot laughs. “It’s a little noisy, but otherwise it’s fine. How about we head into the garden, we at least might be able to talk without coming face to face with rampant banana waving.”
I’m not so sure of that, but I’m more than happy to head out.
We make our way along the garden, to the back. Just like in France, which seems like a lifetime ago, the way is lit with artificial flares, but they stop half way down because we didn’t have enough, leaving the back of the garden in shadow. There’s an old iron bench, and we sit down.
“I like the Viking look. It reminds me of that little toy you dropped, when I first met you in Barista Boys.”
“Oh, that was embarrassing, but in my defence I was using that as a prop when I was assisting in some first-year undergrad classes. It was Cosmo who insisted I come as a Viking, so you can blame him for me looking so stupid.”
“I don’t think you look stupid.”
My heart jolts. In the shadowy darkness his words are quiet, low and gravelly. My throat’s dried up, and is as raspy as sandpaper.
“Well, erm, I think I’d rather have come as James Bond. It’s much more…”Sexy, gorgeous, hot as fuck…“sophisticated,” I end, limply.
Elliot chuckles, the sound going straight to my balls, and my dick, already at half-mast, perks up. I shift on the bench, and attempt to tug down my skirt which has ridden up my thighs.
“I’ve actually come as me, but thank you, I’m more than happy for you to think I’m James Bond. Just as long as it’s not the Roger Moore version.”
“Oh no, Daniel Craig, definitely. It’s the hot craggy film star look, and the blue eyes.”
My body stiffens and the world around us goes silent. What the fuck have I just said? I grip the bottle so hard it might break. It’s the beer talking, and the wine, and—
“Freddie?”
“I’m sorry—”
“Are you? I’m not.”
My body knows what’s coming before my brain, as I lean towards him just as he leans into me. My lips part and I sigh into his kiss. He tastes of toothpaste and mouthwash and the hoppy citrus of the beer, but most of all he tastes of Elliot.
“I really do seem to have a habit of kissing you in the dark,” he whispers against my lips.
“And I seem to have a habit of kissing you back.”
And that’s exactly what I do.
