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“He was obsessed.” I squint at the text. “This one literally says, ‘I think of thee every moment.’”
Tom hums. “Romantic.”
“Clingy,” I correct.
He nudges me with his hip. “Would you prefer I wrote to you, ‘I think of thee every other moment’, to keep things fresh?”
I snort. “Please do not start sending me eighteenth-century thirst texts.”
Tom grins, sliding his fingers through mine. “No promises. And anyway, I seem to remember you liked history chat-up lines.”
“I did not.”
“You definitely did, I think my French Aristocracy one made you nearly spill your wine.”
He’s right. It did.
“Would history thirst texts be an upgrade then?”
“Of course, imagine this: You’re at work and then suddenly you realise you have a text: ‘thou art more constant than the Magna Carta, and considerably more fun to study’.”
I giggle. “High praise.”
As I turn back to the display his hand lands on the small of my back, and he leans forward, mouth at my ear. His voice is pitched low.
“I just want you to know that when we get home later, I’m going to demonstrate exactly how sexy I find you explaining naval mutinies.” His breath tickles my neck and I shiver. “Now read your plaque.”
My face is on fire, but he’s already turned back to the display like nothing happened. The plaque in front of me is about naval provisioning and I can’t read a single word. I spend the last ten minutes absorbing precisely nothing, acutely aware of Tom at my shoulder. The smell of his aftershave, the way he keeps almost touching me and then not.
The bus home takes twenty-five minutes, and I feel every single one of them. His hand is resting on my thigh, his thumb tracing slow idle lines back and forth, and it’s incredibly distracting.
“You’re quiet,” he says.
“I’m reflecting on naval history.”
By the time we reach our stop I’ve reflected on naval history so thoroughly that I nearly miss the fact we’re meant to be getting off. Tom practically drags me into the flat, the door barely clicking shut behind us before I find myself pressed against the wall, his body crowding mine. One arm is braced above my head, the other still firm at my waist like he’s afraid I might evaporate if he lets go.
My pulse thuds in my throat. This is getting hot, fast.
“You’re dangerous in museums, Buttercup,” he says, the teasing register in his tone fully re-engaged. “You should come with a warning label.”
Then his lips crash into mine, along with the rest of his body, and the heat of him pressed against me is suddenly all I can think about. One hand moves to my breast before dipping under the low neckline of my shirt and into my bra. He rolls my nipple gently between his fingers. Fuck. I let out a whimper as he removes his hand, and he just smiles against my lips.
“Feeling impatient, are we?” he murmurs.
I lose my retort as his hand moves to my waist, flicking open the button on my trousers. I tilt my hips up, wanting more.
His hand slides beneath the waistband of my underwear and cups me where I’m already so aroused. I feel like I’m about to combust, and all we’ve done is make out against his wall. But something about Tom always makes me feel like I’m on fire.
“So wet for me,” he whispers in my ear before pressing gentle kisses down my neck in the way he knows I love.
His fingers unerringly find my clit, pressing gently before starting to rub small circles. I let out another whimper, and tilt my head back to give him more access to my throat.
Just as he presses a kiss under my jaw he slides a finger into me, and I let out a gasp. How does it always feel this good with Tom? What is it that means he always knows exactly what I want?
His finger works into me quickly and I buck against the pressure, needing more. Tom slides down my trousers and underwear until they’re at my knees and adds a second finger. I gasp again, back arching, mouth open, head back in pleasure.
“That’s it,” he murmurs against my throat as his two fingers keep up their firm pressure in and out. “Let me feel it.”
