by Hayden Stone
It’s my turn to gawp. “I don’t want that.”
“I put it in a safe place. Don’t be uptight. God. There’s nothing wrong with breasts for safekeeping.” She shakes her head and puts the card down on top of the notices. “She said you could ring her or just stop by the shoot and ask security for Alice. I gave her your card and said you’d love to talk about filming.”
“Gemma! You didn’t.”
She looks entirely unconcerned. “Of course I did. You could use the cash. They pay for locations, you know.”
God, has she been going through the shop accounts too while my back is turned?
“I cash out here, remember? I know what you take in.” Gemma gives me a knowing look.
Weary, I rub my face. Why isn’t today over yet?
“There’s no shame in it. Booksellers are having a tough time. You need alternative revenue streams.”
“How ghastly.”
She cracks up. “You know, cross-marketing? Maybe sell gifts too? Or even dildos? I don’t know. I mean, this is Soho, right? People expect that. The dildos could be all literary or something. Match books with sex toys. You won’t be able to keep the crowds at bay.”
It’s all horrifying talk. I’m not a prude but it’s quite something to be getting this kind of cross-marketing advice from my shop assistant.
“It’s either that or really cool stationery. You know, like the stuff imported from places like Japan and Germany. You can even do something like have a credit for a film download with the book purchase or something like that. Or a book credit with a film purchase,” she muses.
“It’s usually the other way around.” Weary, I sigh. It’s not just the heat getting to me this afternoon.
Gemma’s unfazed as she neatens up around the till, which is a magnet for book stacks. “If you like struggling, suit yourself.”
“I’m making tea,” I say curtly. “Then, I’m going to find this Alice person and put a stop to this filming nonsense before it goes any further.”
Chapter Three
Instead of putting the kettle on as usual for tea, I stride down the lane flanked with glass-fronted shops toward the filming barricade. The afternoon swelters, close and sticky. Traffic remains at a standstill around the filming diversions. There’s the occasional beep or shout. The sun, meanwhile, is relentless, doing its part to crisp what skin I have visible like a human toastie.
This will be quick. There’s no time for filming shenanigans. Certainly not in my shop.
Whatever patience I usually possess has evaporated like any hint of moisture this July, shattering heat records for London, along with my nerves. Today’s been a nonstop crush of one thing after another. After over a year, there shouldn’t be a rip in me like an open wound, with Eli’s visit the latest salt.
Tourists swarm Soho like a tide, spilling down main roads and side lanes. They tote maps. They take selfies. They’re a curse and a blessing. If only they bought more books, but everyone reads on phones these days. They don’t want to carry heavy books home in their luggage.
Winding through the crush of humans and the gawpers at the barricade, I stride up to the filming fortress with purpose. A security guard eyes me. He looms, a man of substance, and clearly no whimsy. He folds his arms across his vast chest like a wall. Behind him is another city of industry with a sea of trailers and people engrossed in filming and filming-adjacent activities.
“Yes?” he asks.
“I’m here to see Alice Rutherford.” I show him her card and the notice with the film location request, and pass over my business card. “She said to stop by. I own the bookshop down the street, Barnes Books. I’m Aubrey Barnes.”
“ID.”
I show him a dreadful driver’s license where I look rumple-haired, as usual.
He grunts in reluctant acknowledgment and keeps my business card, stepping back to let me through. “Third trailer. Go on in.”
On the other side of the barricade, people come and go with kit. When I reach the third trailer, there’s a dilemma. There’re two identical white trailers, one to my left and one to my right. Closed doors. No signage. I look around. No one is near to ask which one is Alice’s. Odds are even on which trailer is hers.
I knock on the door of the trailer to my left. After no response, I try the door handle. The door opens easily, and I step inside. Instantly, it’s cooler, thanks to the air-con.
“Oh!” I say when the man from my bookstore and then the coffee incident spins around to face me, just as startled as I am. He’s bare-chested. I try not to stare and fail miserably.
He’s stunning. Especially shirtless.
I shiver, partly from the shock of the chill after the sun, and partly from the shock of the half-dressed man before me in the low light. Of course it’s him, the man I can’t seem to avoid today. He’s lithe and toned. Dark hair curls around his ears. His face is all angles, caught between shadow and light, something timeless that would be a dream for a sculptor of any era. And he has that grin that’s becoming familiar, last spotted over my ruined parcel.
And now, the ruin of me.
“You’re not Alice,” I blurt. “I don’t think. I’m sorry to disturb you. I’ll leave.”
Whirling around to retreat as quickly as I arrived, my hand is on the door handle again when he speaks.
“Wait!” he says in that soft drawl. “Just wait.”
Gulping hard, I freeze. I don’t dare turn around. Mortified, my face burns at the intrusion. I should have waited for an answer and not barged in. Foolish.
“The security guard said to go on in…”
“You’re right. I’m not Alice.” He laughs. “I’ve got to say, one of the things I’m loving about London is blending in plain sight. It’s refreshing. You don’t know who I am, do you? What a relief.”
I frown at the door, my back still to him. “You’re a man with no time for poets who are arseholes. And I’m evidently an arsehole, so I’d best be off.”
“Hang on a sec. Please.”
Something in my stomach melts a little. Which is ridiculous.
“Would you look at me?” he asks.
Reluctantly, I turn around. He’s still there, this strange man. Still beautiful. He runs a hand through his hair, just to torture me, holding a heather-gray T-shirt in his other hand. Slightly backlit by the filtered light from the window, with the main lights off, his skin has a soft golden glow.
There’s something vaguely familiar about him. I’ll be damned if I know why that is. “You’re not Timothée Chalamet, are you?”
Delighted, he laughs and the sound fills me. “I wish!”
“Sorry. I’m just making things worse. I’ll stop talking. Every time I talk, I make it worse.”
“That would be a shame, if you stopped talking. We keep bumping into each other today,” he says in a soft drawl. “Third time’s lucky, I think. The universe is telling us something. Like, to pay attention to each other.”
My face still burns. Apparently my tongue’s plastered to the roof of my mouth.
“Like fate, maybe,” he says.
That brings an immediate scowl. “I don’t believe in fate. Things just happen. For no reason.”
He laughs, seemingly unfazed by my brusque response, and pulls on his T-shirt, which skims over a fine chest. It’s a shame to cover up such a physique, but the shirt still leaves little to the imagination. By comparison, I’m still rumpled and probably liberally covered in cat fur after I dressed in the dark this morning.
“How about we try again?” He tilts his head. The light catches reddish hints in his hair. “Like, make proper introductions?”
“You took my card.” There are goose bumps on my arms for no good reason. “Earlier. You must know my name.”
“It’s true, I did. I do. Aubrey Barnes.”
The way he says my name is like
honey rolling off his tongue. Like it’s something to be savored.
Like my name is something special.
“And you really don’t know mine?” He smiles. It’s devastating, to be honest.
I shake my head.
“Usually everyone else is at an advantage. I’ve got to say it makes for a nice change.”
“Are you famous?” I ask.
That grin again. Nothing held back. It’s overwhelming to have that unleashed, like I’m the only other person in the universe.
“Not really. Not Timothée Chalamet famous, no way. I’m like a C-lister. But I’m a triple-threat, I’ll have you know. Everyone on set knows who I am, anyway.”
“I don’t even know what that means…and I still don’t know your name.” My voice is a whisper.
He steps closer, an arm’s reach away. So near I could touch him. And God help me, I want to touch him. Badly. His face, his lips, his hair.
Everywhere.
“I’m Blake Sinclair. I act and sing and dance.”
Even in this light, his wintry eyes grip me.
“Aubrey Barnes.” Somehow, I manage to say my name without stammering. It feels important to say my name in return, even if he knows it already. To retain my name as mine, a reclamation in our strange introduction where he has the upper hand. And, oh God help me, that’s a thrilling prospect. Thank heavens for one small mercy. My mouth is dry. “Bookseller.”
At last, he reaches out his hand. “It’s good to meet you properly, Aubrey. I also know that you care very much about the sort of books that people buy, and why they buy them.”
I gulp. “Oh…”
Probably he heard about that disaster with the set decorator, then.
I grip his hand in mine. At the touch of his warm skin, I can’t help a shiver that runs the length of my spine. It’s a firm grasp. Not too soft, not too hard.
Some tiny sound gets caught in my throat.
I die. I’m dead. Bury me in this trailer, here and now.
“I should confess something,” Blake says.
“What’s that?”
“I picked up your card the first time last week when I was in Barnes Books. It’s a really nice store, by the way. I knew your name then.”
I swallow. “Is that right?”
“You know what else I thought?”
“No…”
“That you’re beautiful,” he says simply. “It more than makes up for the prickly customer service situation.”
I just gawp at him. Something in me feels reckless at the tease of this man before me.
“Oh no,” I say instantly. “I’m not beautiful. Not at all. You’ve mistaken me for someone else, I’m afraid. Maybe it’s the accent fooling you, that you evidently have an inherent weakness for the Queen’s English. Or you’re hallucinating with the heat. I’m real, though. And fuck, why am I still talking?”
“Aubrey?”
“Yes?”
Blake stands with enviable confidence, partly backlit by the sun, which outlines a trim physique. “I want to kiss you.”
“Sorry?”
He’s smiling. “I see the way you’re looking at me.”
My cock, which was already in full approval of this situation, stirs. I lick my lips. Caught out. Fair, I’m probably being less than subtle by a train’s length.
We’re close in the confines of the trailer. His hand is still in mine. This is bold. Bold to burst into his trailer, bold to talk to him like this, bold to face the smolder between us that’s grown all day. Channeling up some long-forgotten Aubrey, a younger, wilder me, I give in to the tease of Blake.
In the end, I’m the one who leans in, unable to resist the torment of him any longer.
Blake brushes his lips against mine, light at first. It takes approximately two seconds for that to heat up like the blaze of the afternoon outside. Despite the air-con, I’m on fire.
It’s not like I’m a stranger to men, to hookups, to tempestuous encounters. However, that all feels like a long time ago, like a life that belonged to someone else. Like there’s life before Eli, and life after. Like a fictional Aubrey who’s free of obligation. Of heartache.
Fuck Eli.
Blake groans softly too. Our kisses are hungry, seeking, clumsy. I run a hand along that fabulous chest, over that well-toned stomach, and south to the taut fabric at his groin.
“Do you…?” I ask.
His hand pressing on my shoulder is answer enough.
I go to my knees. My mouth follows the path of my hand, teasing him through his shirt. Till I press the outline of his cock through his jeans and the strain of him makes me feel alive, like I’m high, like I’m someone daring. His desire is intoxicating. To think he’s responding like that because of me. I shiver at the very idea.
The last man was a Grindr offering, so brief and so quick that I can’t remember what he looked like, never mind his name. He barely looked at me, seeking release while I wanted human contact again.
At least Blake’s paying enough attention to know my name.
With unsteady fingers, I unfasten his belt, his jeans. I shove down his boxers and jeans to his knees. His cock is glorious, like the rest of him, already seeping pre-cum that glistens in the sunlight hitting us, bright together in an otherwise dark room.
He groans as I press my mouth around his hot stiffness, filling me.
And I give in to that hunger, that desperation, that seldom seen and long forgotten part of me. The part that says fuck caution—live dangerously.
Live now.
Then, I’m stroking him, working him, tasting him. Blake’s fingers are a vise into my shoulders as I take him deep into my mouth.
Each shiver he gives, each groan, encourages me. My mouth is ruthless. Urgent, I show no mercy despite the ache in my jaw.
“Fuck, yeah. Like that.” Blake gasps. “Oh God.”
As he thrusts, fingers caught rough in my hair, the taste of him overwhelms me.
There’s no yesterday, no tomorrow. Just today, just right now, and oh God, I want him. I want to see him undone, messy and hot, because of me.
I stop abruptly and look up at him. His cock is fierce with desire.
Blake opens his eyes, dazed. He’s breathless. All he needs to say is one word.
And he does.
“Please.” The way Blake says it is almost like a prayer. Reverent.
So I do.
I work his cock, a rhythm of my hand and mouth, to the quickening of his heartbeat, the rush of blood in my ears. His fingers still grip me in place by my hair, and God, I want him. I want this.
Together, we’re brave. Together, we share this sear of a moment.
Blake shudders hard as he surges, flooding me, his taste spilling over my tongue like the essence of summer itself. And I take him, all of him, as deep as I can. Gripping his arse, I hold him tight. Hold him there within me till his muscles stop trembling with release, till at last his cock begins to soften, and I dare breathe again.
Oh God, I’m drowning in him. And I can’t think then, not of anything else, or anyone.
Instead, I dare savor the heat of a man who isn’t Eli. An incredible, greedy moment. And I swallow, taking our desire to my core to keep. To remember that I was once brave and daring too. Someone a stranger would want to remember.
Even if it’s just my accent working some kind of temporary magic. He’ll come to his senses soon enough, but right now, I’ll take this yielding, this brief connection.
Gasping, I sit back on my heels and gaze up at him. He’s magnificent, even half dressed. Maybe that visible unraveling in our lust makes him even more attractive.
A man who wants me. Right now.
A very beautiful man.
Eventually, Blake helps me up, catches my jaw and gives me a kiss best described as devastati
ng.
“Do you want me to…?” Blake asks, his hand in the small of my back. A gesture that is my undoing, holding me against his body. Is that my heart thudding or his? Or does it even matter? His other hand works progressively lower.
“No.” I shake my head, unsteady on my legs as though I’m the one who just came, light-headed.
Reality rushes in like a violent tide. The air smothers.
Blake brushes my lips lightly, still holding my jaw. His taste lingers on my tongue.
His gaze is intent. I die again. And again.
What does he see, taking me in like that? Like he’s committing me to memory. Even though I’m fully clothed, I’m naked before him, every secret and past hurt and want marked bare on my skin like a text to be read.
And, oh fuck, what is he reading?
“I need to go,” I blurt, as heat rises in my face.
Everything’s too hot, too near, too much.
Definitely too much.
From negative ten to a hundred—Jesus, something’s wrong with me. Sucking off a stranger like that. Like something feral had taken hold of me, and just as violently as that desire had appeared, it’s replaced with panic.
Darkness seeps around the corners of my vision, a rising tide. God, I can’t faint. Not now. Not here.
What have I done, so recklessly? With a man I know nothing about? Once, I could do those things, but not anymore.
As quickly as I’ve arrived, I bolt.
This time, I don’t turn or stop when Blake calls out for me to wait. I disappear into the sweltering afternoon, the one left undone, heading anywhere but here.
Chapter Four
Adrenaline courses through me. I walk blindly through Soho for who knows how long despite the sweltering heat. Everything’s too near, the searing day clinging to my skin. Meanwhile, my brain careens inside my skull. No matter how far I walk, I can’t make sense of what I’ve just done.
Who I’ve just done, actually.
One Blake Sinclair.
Stopping in the shade of a building, I drag my forearm across my brow in an effort to wipe away my perspiration. If the gesture could take away my thoughts too, so much the better.