Page 33 of The Alpha Escort Agency
Bit too slimy. He remembers the way she halted the trickle of his come down her leg with her finger and scooped it up into her mouth, her pupils widening as she savoured the flavour.
Soon their pockets are overflowing, and he takes her hand again. At the next bench, he motions for her to sit and routes in his bag, pulling out bottles of beer and some parcels neatly wrapped in beeswax sheets.
“Brie, bacon and cranberry or roasted chicken with mayo?”
“Sandwiches?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“Wow. They sound really fancy. If I'd've made them, then I would've bung a wad of cheddar cheese between two slices of economy loaf.” Her hands mime the motion of two pieces of bread slapping together with a clap.
He stares at her. “I know.”
“I can’t choose — half and half?” She unwraps her scarf, a multitude of autumn colours, and lays it over her lap. “I should have worn an extra layer of tights,” she says, kicking her legs.
He unwraps the beeswax and tears the sandwiches in half, offering them to her. She picks a chicken one first, cradling it in both her hands and taking a big bite. He watches her chew, then lifts the bottle of beer to his mouth and flips off the cap with his teeth.
“You’ll chip a tooth doing that,” she says with a mouthful.
“Alphas have strong teeth.” he draws back his lips to show her, swiping his tongue along the upper ones.
“I know,” she whispers, her eyes running over the rows of his teeth.
He tilts the bottle towards her and she takes a swig. Peering down at his sandwich, he realises he’s not a bit hungry. Usually he’d be famished — he’s always famished, his Alpha body burning through calories at a rate of knots. But he’s too keyed up, too alert to every movement she makes, every word she says, every trace of a message in her scent. He wants to make this date special.
Because that’s what it must be, right? Another date.
What is this one? The second, or the third? He hasn’t been on a third date for a long, long time.
Yet it hardly feels like a date. There’s not the usual threat of expectation hanging in the air, the looming danger of it all going wrong. This feels natural. Like they’ve hung out like this many times before. He feels relaxed in her company, easy. He doesn’t feel the need to fill the silences with words or try to impress her.
Bending down, he searches through his bag.
“More food?” she says.
“I have fruit and brownies.”
“Hmmm, I am in love with your brownies. I think I’ve even been dreaming of them.”
He shakes his head at her and pulls out his camera.
“That is not a brownie.” She makes a disappointed face.
“No.” He pops off the lens, bringing the camera up to his eye and lining up the shot across the water, twiddling the lens to focus the picture. The twisted willow on the opposite banks, its branches drooping heavily into the river, swims from a mist of colours to sharp and vivid. He presses down the shutter.
“Is it a digital camera?”
“No, I didn’t bring my digital today. This is my grandad’s old SLR. Sometimes I like doing it the old fashioned way.”
“But it means I don’t get to see the picture.” She takes another bite of the sandwich, and he feels satisfied at how swiftly it’s disappearing.
“No, not until I develop them.”
“Is there even anywhere you can still get photos developed?”
“Yeah, a few. But I turned my spare room into a dark room.”
He looks down the river, lining up another shot, wanting to photograph the reflection of colours in the water. She twists her head and follows his gaze, and quickly, before she notices, he shifts the camera to capture her outline in the frame. She stares that way for a moment, laughing at two drakes trailing behind their female, and he snatches several shots before she focuses back to him.
