Okay, I can’t help it.
His jaw drops, and he gestures to himself. “Am I disheveled, unshowered, and dressed in sweats? No. Not to cast aspersions on other writers, mind you.”
I lean closer and whisper, “I won’t tell all the other writers in the world that you mock their wardrobes.”
“Thank you so very much. Anyway, you’re right. I am a writer—well, I’m a business reporter—and my news organization sent me here to cover the financial markets.”
“Ah, stocks, bonds, money, money, money,” I say.
“That’s the gist of my days,” TJ says, then takes a breath like he’s not quite sure if he wants to say the next thing. But then he goes for it. “I’ll be here for a year.”
I flinch in surprise. “That’s a long time.”
He laughs, but it’s defensive. “You’re rethinking that offer for tomorrow, aren’t you?”
Am I? Does the score change with him living here rather than being on holiday?
I’m not in the market for a relationship after the way my last one ended. But first dates aren’t the best time to lay down the rules of my solo road.
I keep my answer on the level—the physical level. “I’m thinking I’m still quite interested in seeing what’s underneath this writer’s garb.”
He laughs. “So, I do dress like a writer.”
“A little bit. But that isn’t stopping me from wanting to touch what’s under the Tetris T-shirt,” I say playfully, plucking at the fabric near his belly.
I’m so very tempted to check out his abs. But I don’t want to be handsy. I’ll just have to imagine what they’re like. Or maybe not, because TJ grabs my hand and places it on his stomach.
Oh, yes. They’re as firm as I imagined.
TJ gives a slight smirk. “Figured this was easier than you surreptitiously trying to check out my abs.”
“Was playing with your shirt what we’d call surreptitious?”
“Not in the motherfucking least,” he says.
This is my chance to turn the tables on him, to grab his palm, and set it on my stomach.
But he lifts his hand and takes another drink.
Maybe he wants to leave me wanting him more. And I do want TJ, even this tired version—make that dog-tired because there he goes again with another yawn.
“All right, stud. It’s well past your bedtime,” I tell him.
“It’s not even five in New York,” he protests.
“And yet, you look like you could sleep for days,” I say.
“I do like sleep, but I also like doing other things in bed,” he says, his voice husky and hopeful.
“Tomorrow, Troy Jett,” I say and ruffle his hair. I like touching him. A lot.
“Troy Jett? Please.”
“It was worth a shot.”
He arches a dubious brow. “Promise me something. Promise me you’ll never date a douche named Troy Jett.”
“That is a particularly dickish name,” I say.
He hums, tapping his chin. “Why is dick an insult?”
“That’s an excellent question, considering how much I love it,” I say, giving a little roll of the tongue with those last few words.
“That’s why it should be a compliment of the highest order,” TJ adds. “Instead of saying he’s a dick when someone is a jerk, we should save he’s a dick for a really awesome dude.”
“Like, if I met a rather handsome stud, I’d say I met a great dick today.” I take a beat to adopt a thoughtful expression. “At least, I think he’s a great dick,” I say, feigning worry. “What if he’s not?”
TJ sighs heavily. “That’d be such a shame if the guy you think is a dick turns out to be a not-dick. But I’ll let you in on a secret. I have a feeling this dude you met is definitely a dick. Like a big, huge dick. The biggest dick.”
I groan, half in the promise of pleasure, half in amusement. “But I won’t say I hope he has a big dick. Because, sure, size is nice and all. But great dicks come in all sizes. It’s not the length or the girth, but what a great dick can do with a great dick.”
TJ laughs, long and a little slaphappy. “You have a way with words too. And I will drink to your ode to all shapes and sizes,” he says, and we toast once more.
Soon, we take our last sips of beer, reaching the end of the date. But before I can say good night, TJ leans into me and brushes a kiss onto my cheek.
I freeze and moan at the same time.
I didn’t expect a kiss, and I definitely don’t want it to end. His lips are utterly delicious on my skin. I close my eyes and revel in the barely-there stroke of his soft lips down to my jaw, where he’s more insistent, a little rougher, that stubble scraping my chin in the best way.
I shudder out a breath. He lays a hand on my other cheek, holds me in place. “If you’re a good dick, I’ll give you a good night kiss,” he whispers, and I’m so damn glad I lost the Cleaneroo gig. If the casting director had asked for a callback on the spot, I’d have missed my chance to run into TJ outside a discount shop.
“I’ll be the best,” I say, and I’m tempted to turn into his lips. To get lost in one of those endless, dreamy kisses I suspect he can give.
But I’m acutely aware of the power of waiting.
I’ve never edged with kisses. I plan to tonight.
A few minutes later, we’re outside The Magpie. With the book in hand, he gestures in the direction of his hotel. “See you tomorrow sometime,” he says.
“Text me when you’re up, Sleeping Beauty,” I say, nibbling the edge of my mouth absently for a second.
TJ stares wantonly at me, then steps closer. He’s mere inches away. “You do this thing where you bite your lip, and it kind of drives me crazy.” He drags his thumb along the corner of my mouth then chases it with his lips, giving me one more kiss right there. A spark sprints through me from that barest touch.
TJ steps away, walks backward, lifts his free hand to wave. “Goodnight, Just Jude.”
“Welcome to London, Tobias Jangle.”
With a smile, TJ turns and strolls into the London evening. The whole way home, I think of great dicks. Because that was the best goodnight kiss I’ve ever had, and it was also the most innocent.
5
All That Presuming
TJ
* * *
I was born and raised in Seattle and lived there till I left for college. It rains every day in the Pacific Northwest, and no one there uses an umbrella.
To London weather, I say, bring it on, and the gray sky does just that the next morning, piddling rain on me as I hunt for coffee.
Coffee will help me decide when to text Jude, and it is a veritable hunt because I’m a little ashamed to admit this—I’m a terrible coffee snob. Like, the worst of them. The kind I will undoubtedly mock in a future book someday. The guy who asks Do you know the elevation where the beans were grown while the barista wonders if it’s acceptable to flip a customer the bird for being a pretentious fuck.
Google tells me the nearby Coffee O’Clock has the best reviews in the hood, so I make a beeline for the shop’s red awning then wait in line.