His hands were tracing her spine, slowly, purposefully, as he pulled back to look at her, his blue eyes meeting her hazel ones.‘You’re amazing and you make me crazy.’
Imogen felt both still and buzzing at the same time. It was what Demi called an OFIM – an ‘Oh fuck it’ moment. Imogen pulled Dec towards her by the front of his t-shirt and kissed him, not softly or carefully, but demanding, wanting all of him. He pressed against her, hands around her waist, the stubble on his chin scratching her face deliciously as he gently bit her lower lip. Imogen sighed and pulled him closer, magnetic. It felt good to be the demanding one, wrapping her arms around his neck until she was against him, warm and desperate. So this was what need felt like. An uncomfortable itch that you were too embarrassed to scratch.
She pulled back, breathing hard and he grinned at her, those light eyes almost taunting. ‘Like I said, amazing.’
Imogen said nothing, smiling at a spot on the pavement.
‘Nothing to say?’ He kept her close, smiling that know-it-all smile.
‘Your lips are better at convincing when they’re not saying words.’ She rolled her eyes, stepping back. ‘Casual. We can be casual.’
‘All my dreams are answered.’ He patted her bum briefly before releasing her, but taking hold of her hand. ‘So I believe celebrations are in order? Both for the job and the fact that you haven’t booted me to the kerb just yet. Bottle of cava for the lady? My treat.’ He gestured to the pub.
‘I can’t drink a bottle of cava all by myself!’ Imogen exclaimed, knowing full well that she probably absolutely could, but she’d be a soggy, tired mess.
‘Well, I’m sure I could make an exception this once, and help you celebrate.’
How he managed to make his smile that sexy, she didn’t know. It’s like he knew everything he said had a double meaning. And something about that shot of electricity when his lips touched hers had woken her up. She wanted him. And in her London life so far, things had worked out when she’d been upfront. So maybe she should just go for what she wanted. Which, right now, and for quite a long time, really, had been Declan.
‘Actually’ – she tried to look like the idea was just occurring to her – ‘I was thinking, if your flat isn’t full of rugby players any more, maybe we could take a bottle there? Watch a movie or something?’
Dec’s eyes widened briefly, then the Cheshire cat grin came out to play. ‘Absolutely, love, great idea. This way then. To the shop!’
Imogen tried not to be so disgustingly smitten, but even his rough hand holding hers as they walked along, tracing her fingers with his thumb, was enough to make her smile. No, she didn’t want to get hurt. But maybe she should take a chance, just once.
I have a writing job, a normal job, and am probably about to have sex with someone so gorgeous I can’t look directly at him. Life is good, she thought to herself, humming a little with satisfaction, looking at Dec as he talked about how wonderful the job was, and how many hits she’d had, and what did the offices at The Type look like? She’d never really had anyone be that interested in her life before, but then she supposed, before London, she’d never really done anything interesting. It had all been grey and normal – work in the pub, go to uni, look after her dad, do family stuff. She’d scrimped and saved and survived, become an adult at a young age, and here she was, finally in the big city, able to act a little silly if she wanted to. Like throwing herself at a gorgeous man she sort of worked with.
‘You fussy with food?’ Declan asked, grabbing a basket, but still keeping hold of Imogen’s hand.
‘Not in the slightest. Don’t like posh cheeses, though. Or olives.’
‘Aren’t you Greek? Aren’t olives a main part of the diet?’ He squeezed her hand.
‘Half Greek, and yes. I’m a terrible, terrible person. They don’t let me go to family parties.’ She watched as he grabbed a variety of ingredients that looked like he was going to make Mexican food.
‘I didn’t even know there was a Greek community in Doncaster. Or up north at all.’
‘There isn’t, really. My dad grew up in London, then he met my mum on holiday, and she lived there, so he moved. When my mum got ill, my uncle, aunt and cousin moved there, too, to support my dad.’ Imogen realised this was a bit of a deep conversation to start in the cheese aisle of Tesco, and shrugged. ‘So yeah, it’s mainly just us. The rest of the Greeks live further south, but that doesn’t stop the ridiculous number of weddings and christenings we’re obligated to go to.’
‘Big family’s nice.’ Dec squeezed her hand, grabbing some pre-grated cheddar off the shelf. ‘I miss mine sometimes. And then a couple of them visit and I realise how much I like my quiet and my sanity.’
‘And you feel obligated to take them to all the tourist places?’ Imogen nodded, thankful that Demi was so uninterested in anything cultural. Or popular.
‘M and M World. For three hours. It’s fucking chocolate! How can you spend three hours there?’ In the end I gave my brother and sister twenty quid each and told them which coffee shop I’d be in.’
‘They didn’t get lost?’
‘Worse, they ate all the chocolate on the tube ride back to mine, and then threw up the minute we got through the door. And they’re fourteen and fifteen!’ Dec rolled his eyes, dragging her along so he could pause in front of the alcohol section. ‘Does madam have a preference?’
‘You could choose non-alcholic bucks fizz and madam would be ecstatic. Whatever you like,’ she shrugged, secretly thinking that a glass of bubbles might make her less nervous. But more stupid. Her stomach was in her throat. He obviously knew why she’d suggested going back to his. And yet here he was, bollocking about with different types of wine.
‘Err, this one.’ She grabbed a six-pound bottle and stuck it in the basket. ‘We good to go?’
‘You hate shopping?’ Dec raised an eyebrow, grabbing a bar of chocolate and a bag of popcorn.
‘No …’ Imogen shrugged. ‘Just want to get on with the celebrations, I guess.’
‘Oh believe me, me too.’ His grin filled his entire face, and she nudged him with her elbow, face flaming.
‘You prat.’
He looked up from the self-checkout and twitched his lips knowingly. ‘And yet – you want to snuggle up and watch a movie with me.’
‘Funny how the more you talk, the less I want to do that.’
Declan pretended to look scared, made a zipping gesture and returned to packing. Imogen tried to offer money when he paid, but he wouldn’t accept it. He also pretended to not be able to speak through the zip. So she skimmed her fingertips along his lips, as if to free him. ‘You can speak,’ she said softly, unsure as to why that simple touch had made her whole body vibrate with need. He just looked at her, blue eyes gentle, hand resting on her hip.
‘We really need to get back to mine,’ he breathed.
Imogen just nodded, and let him drag her out of the shop. The walk back to his was almost painful in how charged it was. They each carried a shopping bag, and tried to make conversation about things they were noticing as they walked, or the cost of renting in London, but Imogen couldn’t think straight. His thumb rubbing her hand was now a distraction, and her skin seemed to be humming. Touch was almost painful.
Just as Declan trailed off in the middle of a sentence, and she gulped because she felt her cheeks redden, he stopped suddenly and dropped the shopping bags.
‘Fuck this,’ he growled and reached for her, lips strong and sure, his hands stroking her back and pulling her towards him. She stretched into him, arms around neck, hipbone to hipbone as she pulled his head closer. There was something animal about it, the feeling that it had to happen, that it was necessary, and being close to him was the only balm. But it only made her more desperate. Imogen tugged at the back of his t-shirt, her hands on his warm skin at the base of his spine, pulling him closer. She felt like she needed every part of her to be touching every part of him, or she’d never breathe properly again. And she didn’t
even have the capacity to be embarrassed at how pathetic that was.
They broke away, panting, but he kept her close, pulled in against his chest. ‘Sorry.’
‘Why?’ she breathed back.
‘Really wanted to kiss you. Needed to, actually.’ He swallowed, looking down at her.
‘No complaints,’ she said, smiling. ‘Where’s your flat?’
He pointed to the house they were standing outside of, a typical Victorian up a set of chunky stairs.
‘You couldn’t have waited until we got inside?’ she laughed, picking up the shopping bag as he rooted around for his keys.
‘Nope,’ he winked at her. ‘Come on.’
The house was winding, all narrow staircases and long rooms. The kitchen looked tidy enough, except for the washing up in the sink. Dec dumped the bags on the kitchen table, put the bottle of cava in the fridge, and took Imogen’s hand.
‘At the risk of sounding like a ten-year-old, want to see my bedroom?’
Imogen laughed and nodded, following him up the rickety stairs and not noticing at all how his jeans fit, and how tanned his back was. His room was full of life and colour. Big prints in frames, a crumpled bed with a massive television at the end. In the corner, a desk with drawing materials and sketchpads. Next to it, a vintage record player, and a bass guitar with an amp.
‘Wow,’ Imogen said, thinking of her plain little room with no personality or style. Just white and blue, white and blue. Nothing of her in it. She felt like she could spend hours exploring this room, finding secrets in the little toys that lined the shelves, or the books, or the sketches. This was Declan.
‘Yeah, sorry it’s a total mess –’
‘No, I just meant … it’s really you.’
‘A total mess?’
‘No,’ she shook her head. ‘It’s just … personal.’
‘Well, now I’m dying to see what your room looks like.’ He closed the door and moved closer. Her fingertips went numb and she bit her lip.
‘Bland, and blank and empty,’ she shrugged as he put his arms around her, stroking the skin above the waistband of her jeans, delicate and teasing.
‘A blank canvas, waiting to be explored.’ He dipped his head to her neck, pressing kisses up to her ear, biting gently until she sighed.
‘Imogen …’ he said between kisses, ‘we’re on the same page here, right?’
She chuckled a little, and pulled him in to kiss her by his belt buckle. ‘Yes, I am trying to be terribly obvious.’
‘Well, you’re doing a great job,’ he laughed against her lips, backing her up to the bed.
*****
Imogen was surprised to find she’d been asleep. She was stretched out against Declan, his skin warm against her cheek. She grinned to herself and snuggled back down, just looking at him. His skin was tanned, that natural hardy look from working outside all the time. She traced a fingertip down the lines of his muscles in his arms, remembering how strong those arms felt, lifting her up as she wound her legs around him. She smiled into his skin, her stomach growling loudly.
‘Guess we never did make that celebratory food,’ he laughed, looking out of the window at the dying light.
‘Or watched the movie,’ she laughed, moving up to kiss him. He responded and then paused. ‘We still can, if you want to?’
‘Sounds good.’ She rested back on her elbows. ‘Is everything all right?’
Declan grinned. ‘More than all right. I just … I don’t want to lead you on or anything. Just, we’re still okay with being casual?’
Imogen blinked. ‘Well, it was very polite of you to at least pull out before telling me that.’
‘Don’t be like that.’
‘I’m not being like anything.’ She shuffled to find her clothes. ‘Dec, I’ve got no interest in being in a relationship. I quite like casual. I’m comfortable with casual. We’ve been through this.’
‘That’s great! So why are you pissed?’
Imogen growled a little. ‘Because I think it’s rude to bring it up immediately after fucking someone!’
‘I just didn’t want you to think –’
‘That I’ve had your body and now I must automatically want your babies and to get married? You’re hot, but come on.’ She raised an eyebrow, trying to keep hold of the moral high ground as she stumbled into her knickers.
‘I didn’t want to lead you on, love. I want to keep doing this, but I just …’
‘Yes, yes, you’re very broken and we all want to fix you.’ Imogen rolled her eyes and watched as Dec suppressed a smirk. ‘You didn’t lead me on. We have used the word “casual” more than any other time in my life. What might have been misleading was the month or so that you chased me. That might have been an indication of wanting to be with someone.’
‘I do want to be with you!’ he insisted, reaching for her arm.
Imogen tapped herself on the head with her hand and tried not to scream. ‘If you want to be with me, what the fuck does casual even mean?’
‘I just … don’t want to put any labels on it.’
Imogen bit her lip to stop herself from commenting on the ‘stereotypical man-child bullshit’, as Demi called it.
‘I’m assuming it also means we can sleep with other people?’
‘If that’s what you want …’ Dec shrugged.
‘Oh sweet and merciful baby Jesus!’ She shook his hand off. ‘Figure out what you want and let me know.’
She busied herself looking for the rest of her clothes, while Dec sat there in a bit of a haze. ‘This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. I planned our evening, that we’d have food, and what movies we could watch …’
‘Doesn’t sound very casual of you, Dec,’ Imogen mocked, knowing she sounded ridiculous, but unable to stop herself. She knew, really, she was cutting off her own nose to spite her face. He wanted casual, she wanted casual. It all worked. She just didn’t want him to say it to her immediately after sex, like she was some relationship-crazed freak. He’d chased her.
‘Oh for fuck’s sake!’ Declan growled. ‘I know exactly what I want. I want you! I don’t wanna see anyone else, I don’t want to fuck anyone else. I just don’t want you freaking out in six months time about why we haven’t moved in together yet, or what our wedding colours are going to be.’
Imogen wasn’t sure whether to scream or laugh. ‘So I shouldn’t feel honoured by this little speech? This is your standard operations handbook that you give out to everyone?’
‘Yes,’ Dec sighed, sitting down on the bed again.
Imogen shook her head. ‘What the hell made you think I was like that? I told you I’m happy with casual. It’s all I know; it’s definitely all I have time for. It’s actually really arrogant of you to pull out, roll over and go “Now, darling, I know I’m immensely loveable, but you must try to control yourself”.’
Declan snorted at her impression, standing up to face her and affecting his own voice. ‘But darling, I just couldn’t help myself, because I’m an egotistical dickhead.’
‘Well,’ she paused, ‘as long as you know.’ She looked at him. ‘Also it’s really hard to seem sincere when you’re standing there bollock-naked with one sock on.’
‘I know, right?’ he exclaimed, pulling her towards him, encircling her in his arms and rubbing his bristled cheek against her neck as he kissed her shoulder. ‘So we’re both agreed? Because I had some much more interesting plans for this evening …’
He traced kisses down her neck, words whispered against her skin.
Stay strong, Imogen, she told herself, you are in the right here. But she felt herself softening under his kisses, talking herself round. They were on the same page. They both wanted casual. And who wanted a boyfriend when they could have a Declan?
She pushed him away. ‘We’re agreed. But you need to feed me first.’
‘Whatever madam wants.’
*****
Welcome to a brand-new blog on The Type. I’ll be your Twisted Barista this fine d
ay. In honour of our brand-new home, I’ll be talking about those snobby media types.
The Runner’s Tale
Why Fetching the Coffee for Media Big Wigs Does NOT Make You Better than the Person Who Made the Coffee
Yes, yes, I know. It’s so HARD to break into the media. It’s such a tough job where no one thanks you and you have to fetch coffee a hundred times a day.
Oh. Wait. That sounds familiar. The lack of thanks? The people who think you’re a worthless waste of space who has no talent beyond being a fetcher/cleaner/coffee machine combo? And even then, you’re not that talented. The continual degradation? Spending your hours wishing you were doing something creative and exciting? Going home exhausted, sure that you’re never going to get any closer to your dreams?
Hey, Runner. You and me are the same, kid. So WHY THE FUCK are you treating me like shit?
Plus, FYI, I can actually MAKE that double-shot-extra-hot-dry-cappuccino-with-sweetener that you are SO intent on telling me how to get right. You can just about say it. Your very important job is to carry it back correctly, and write everyone’s names on the top. Because that’s what people want in a Runner. Someone who can’t remember the order of three people (the same order you have EVERY day) without referring to a list, and can’t identify which drink is which without putting permanent marker on the lid, which they will then get on their faces. And treats everyone involved like shit in the process.
Yeah, awesome. You’ll be running the Beeb in no time.
Look, I know it’s hard. I know you’re on the wrong side of twenty-five, and your dreams of being a tiptop marketing exec, important-running-around-with-an-iPhone type person seem to be slipping away from you. But stop being such a fucking tool. You chose to be a media whore. That is not my problem. What IS my problem, is making the drinks you have ordered to the specifications you require. Which is what I do. Just because you’re working on the latest shitty incarnation of a stupid, never-ending reality TV series that should have died a death a while ago, but doesn’t because the majority of people don’t know what a book is, DOES NOT make you better than me.
If You Don't Know Me by Now Page 9