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I shudder in the most delicious way at the contact. I can’t control it.
“Are you mad?” he asks.
I’m not, but I think I should be. What am I doing? Friends don’t do this. “I don’t know.”
He applies gentle pressure to my shoulders, pushing me forward toward the dining chairs. “Sit. Eat. Let me earn your forgiveness.”
I sit, but there’s a problem. “There’s nothing to eat.”
“Well, not yet. I didnae want to order for you.” He picks up a leather-bound folder on his way round to his side of the table. “Menu,” he says as he hands it to me.
A smile pulls on my lips as I take it, and only widens when Laurence jogs over to the wine fridge nestled in the centre of a row of wall cabinets and pulls out a bottle of sparkling apple juice. My favourite. A coincidence, surely.
“You bring apple juice to work every morning,” he says, unscrewing the bottle before pouring some into my glass. “I went with sparkling for tonight because you said no alcohol, and it seemed fancier than concentrated.”
“You noticed that?”
He looks me dead in the eyes. “I notice everything about you, William.”
My heart stops.
Fuck.
Why is he doing this to me? “What is this, Laurence?”
He finishes pouring his own glass. Takes a seat opposite. “It’s dinner.”
“Laurence…don’t treat me like an idiot. We both know this is not dinner.”
“It will be when you choose something from that menu.”
He won’t meet my eyes. Instead, he browses his own menu as if we really are simply two friends sitting down over an evening meal. For now, I’ll play. Swallowing my frustration, or excitement - I can’t decipher the sensations swimming in my chest – I part the leather folder. “I don’t speak French.”
“Neither do I. I usually just go for whatever word looks the prettiest.”
“Carré d’ang…d’agneau,” I say, likely pronouncing it entirely wrong. “What do you think that is?”
“We’ll soon find out.” He slams his menu closed. “I’ll have that.”
I do the same. Whatever I choose will be potluck. “Me, too.”
Laurence takes my menu, carries it with him while he rings our order through via the phone on the wall. He voices the French words differently than I did. Even produces a bit of an accent. It makes me wonder if he lied about speaking the language to make me feel less inadequate.
He hangs the phone up. Sets the menus down. And then he just…watches me. “Shall we get comfortable while we wait?” he says after what feels like an age.
I follow his nod toward the plush couches at the far side of the room. “Okay,” I agree, pushing out from the table.
I tug awkwardly at the cuffs of my shirt as I amble over to Laurence to make my way past him and to the couch. The air feels charged, like something’s changing. It’s thick as I breathe it in. Our gazes meet as I near him. I smile briefly, prepare to keep going…but his palm slams into my chest.
Before I can register what’s happening, I’m being pushed backwards. My arse hits the wall, the weight of Laurence pinning me in place. “Wh-what are you…” I can’t speak. Can’t breathe. He’s so close. So broad. Heavy.
“This isn’t just dinner.”
Chapter Ten
William
Our faces are so close, I feel his warm breath on my lips.
This isn’t just dinner. Laurence’s words repeat in my head.
“Then what is it?” I ask so faintly I’m not sure I’ve even said it.
Through the corner of my eye, I see his hand rise to my face. It lands on my cheek, and all I can think about is how soft and gentle such a big hand can be. His thumb brushes the sensitive ridge below my eye, and he whispers, “Can I kiss you?”
“Yes.” The word rushes out like a plea, without qualm or deliberation, and his lips touch mine before the hiss of the S has finished sounding.
Oh… fuck. His lips are tender, but his kiss is firm, and I’m experiencing something for the very first time. Something wonderful. Unimaginable. He tastes like apple as he slips his tongue inside my mouth. Licking, teasing, exploring. His groan sends blood pooling to my dick. Fuck, that sound coming from his throat. It’s the best thing I’ve ever heard. So raw. Deep. Masculine.
My hands reach for him automatically, taking his face, holding him in place, afraid to let this end. The scratch of his stubble beneath my fingers feels alien, forbidden almost, yet incredibly exciting. And he knows. He can feel me, feel how hard I am. I know because he urges his hips forward, pressing his groin into mine, and I’m sure I’m about to come in my pants like a fucking fourteen-year-old watching his first porno.
“Fuck,” I moan into his mouth. “F-fuck, stop. Stop. I need to stop.” I break away, breathless, drop my head into his shoulder.
