His Last Christmas in London by Con Riley

Author:Con Riley [Riley, Con]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: FIGMENT INK
Published: 2022-11-16T16:00:00+00:00

8

We get a cab and travel back in almost silence.

On a surface level, we go through the same motions as last time. Guy lets me into the building, his footsteps an echoing reminder of the first night we met, but today feels different.

Very different.

Now I push past him, leading the way, not caring if he wants the rest of the world to see him as some clawed monster to fear. I know what I’ve witnessed more than once now. Each small act of kindness tips a set of scales in his favour, ones I hadn’t known I’d weighed men by since Lito.

Monster?

I don’t fucking think so.

I can’t even see his stare as beetle-black now. Not as he catches up with me, our long strides matching. His eyes aren’t hard like an insect’s carapace might be, not one bit. Yes, they’re black, but isn’t coal, too? Each flash they make in my direction is a spark, every flight of stairs to his front door, combustion coming closer.

We enter his flat and I take in more than last time, my eyes drawn, as ever, to photos.

I see a version of him at my age, maybe, his skin tanned a deep gold, laughing at whoever held the camera. They’d caught his bad side, no hiding that distinctive profile. I touch it with the tip of a finger, tracing a hook that’s striking. Unique. One hundred percent belonging to the Guy I know, not his food critic persona.

“Ian?” His tone is questioning, cautious, and that’s all it takes.

A match flares somewhere long dark inside me.

I kiss him like I’ve wanted to since the last time I left this building, as I’ve thought about so often at home as Seb and Patrick orbit while I wish they’d fuck already. Or at least kiss. And that’s what I do to Guy—I kiss him and don’t stop and it’s exactly as I remember, hot from the outset. He holds nothing back either, as though he’s also been waiting, as hungry for it as me. Starved for too long without this connection.

And doesn’t that take on a whole new meaning after what Robin told me?

I can’t think about why Guy lives alone here. Can’t picture him in what’s clearly a home missing whoever took that suntanned photo.

I can only touch him.

We’re still in our coats, our gloves still on, or at least mine are. He must have shed his. His fingers are cool at my throat, unknotting my scarf—his scarf—his mouth fixed to mine, and that’s my focal point as his tongue finds mine, the tip making contact before sliding inside deeper, and fuck, he’s so, so good at kissing.

Good, too, at multitasking.

He gets my coat off while our mouths are still fused. My gloves as well, our fingers tangling until he grasps the hem of my sweater. Fabric gets in the way, breaking a kiss that already feels close to fucking. Then it’s gone and I get my tongue back in his mouth. His own is equally

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