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‘Really?’ I ask. I notice that although he’s straightening up and trying to act presentable, he can’t resist pumping his shaft just once. I think he does it when I raise one stern eyebrow.

I raise the other, in the hopes that he’ll do it again.

‘I’m sorry – I won’t do it again. I swear I won’t do it again.’ His eyes dart to one side, but not in shameful penitence. I think he’s actually considering – probably mentally flicking through every dirty book he’s ever read, for just the right thing. ‘Can I pull my trousers back up?’

Ah, asking permission. Always a bad thing to do, when you’ve just been caught doing something naughty and you’re starring in an erotic novel.

‘I don’t think so, Gabriel.’

Again, he surreptitiously strokes himself. Or not so surreptitiously, really. More like he wanks right in front of my face and waits for me to punish him for it.

‘I think you need to finish the job. Don’t you think so, too? I mean, how can you come back out onto my shopfloor with that thing waving between your legs? You’d frighten all the customers.’

He groans. He shuts his eyes tight. His cock jumps in his twisting grasp.

‘No. I think, what you need to do is jerk off until you come, right here, in front of me.’

‘Oh,’ he says – so lustily despairing. I didn’t even know there was such a thing. How can despair be lust-filled? And yet somehow, he manages it.

‘On my tits, I think. Wouldn’t that be nice? You do want to come all over my tits, don’t you?’

He bites his lip. I’ll take that as a yes.

Though I don’t have to. I don’t have to make do with subtle, because when I get up close to him he actually reaches forward, and starts fumbling with the buttons on my shirt. And he kisses me – he really kisses me, while I just stand there, frozen.

It feels good, though. I won’t deny that. His cock pokes into my skirt, coming close to the V between my thighs. His mouth is warm and soft and patient, not frantic as I had expected. And then he pushes his hand inside my shirt, and fondles my half-clad breasts, and I forget every single thought in my head.

I wonder if he’s going to try and make love to me, on the bathroom floor.

‘Gabe, wait –’

He’s somehow got my bra undone. The shirt is off my shoulders.

‘Don’t you want me to do this, any more?’ he asks, but he rubs his erection against my skirt as he does so.

‘No – I do –’

‘It’ll be messy. I’m really close.’

God. God. Fuck.

‘Do you want me to climb up, or are you going to … to kneel down. Like before, when you …’

‘When I sucked you?’

‘Yes, yes exactly.’

He’s stroking himself, again. Short, restrained tugs, squeezing when he hits the base.

‘When Andy forced you to put your cock in my mouth?’

‘Oh my God, oh … oh Maddie, I’m gonna come.’

Did he just call me Maddie? He did. I’m sure he did.

‘I can’t hold off – please,’ he says, so I get on my knees in front of him, for the second time. Not that I care about little details like that, when he just called me
Maddie
. When I keep flashing on us on the bathroom floor, holding each other.

His hot come spurting over my breasts is a nice, clean, slap to the face. Something to wake me up and get me focussed on the matter at hand: him groaning above me as his cock jerks in his fist, streamer after streamer of spunk coating my nipples and my chest and even all the way up to my throat.

Feels good. Silky and dirty and cooling on my heated flesh. And then I get to say this as he breathes unsteadily and tries to sit down where no seat is, ‘Now clean me up, you filthy little mess.’

I don’t look at him as I say it, but I hear him simultaneously trying to tidy himself up, while obtaining some tissue for me. He should really know me better, by now.

‘No,’ I tell him. ‘No tissue. I want you to lick me clean.’

I hear him pause. I can see tweed, out of the corner of my eye. At first I think he’s going to balk, and he makes a little sound that could be turning into a protest. But then he just gets to his knees in front of me, as determined as he had looked earlier, on his way to the bathroom to start this game off.

‘Quickly,’ I say. ‘I don’t have all day.’

And then he puts his tongue to the drop of sticky fluid that landed right on my left nipple, and laps, and laps, and laps. I can’t help the little cry which escapes from between my supposedly pressed together lips.

When he hears it, he suckles instead of licking. I clasp a hand to the back of his head – I can’t stop that, either. Just the sight of him, hungrily licking and sucking at my covered tits, groaning softly as he does so. His pink tongue against my pale skin, against the near translucent liquid …

‘Oh baby,’ I say, even though I hate myself for doing it.

He gets to my throat, and my knees would buckle if they had anywhere to go. I just want to kiss and lick and suck him back, plunge my hands deeper into his silky black hair – but if I do, what then?

I don’t mind admitting that it’s a relief when someone bangs on the outside door.

He tastes like come, when I kiss him. The streets are rain-slicked and grey and we stand briefly under a shop awning, when it rushes down heavily, suddenly. He looks out onto the street as it thunders down, oblivious to my eyes on him. He’s talking about nothing in particular, and ends by saying that we’re not going to make it to the cinema in time.

I think he might be beautiful. Not classically so, but just – he looks so lovely, in the low light. He’s worrying about some little thing, and yet he seems so much less concerned than he once did, as though the weight on his back has gradually lifted.

There’s more stubble than there used to be, on his face. It looks good – especially at the firm curve of his jaw. His hair isn’t as tightly smoothed to his head, and there’s no tie, today. It’s just little things, really. Little things that become big, on him.

So I kiss him, when he’s busy not looking. And he kisses me back, because that’s what we do, now.

We also apparently go to the cinema, to see a double bill of probably inadvisable steamy French movies. I wonder if he’s going to want me to hold his hand, in the dark. Or put my hand over his eyes. Or put my hand down his pants.

He’s still wearing the pink knickers.

‘What was that for?’ he asks, when I pull away. And I have to consider: is it really that unusual for me to just kiss him? Or is that we’re outside, in the open, like a proper couple?

I hope he doesn’t want to hold my hand, in the dark.

‘I want to taste what you’ve been doing, lately,’ I say.

But I’m lying. The real answer was: because you looked so gorgeous, I just couldn’t resist. And he’s blushing, now, too, which always makes him look even hotter, somehow. Though nothing on him even comes close to this, in the hotness stakes, ‘I’ve been licking your tits.’

God I wish a customer hadn’t interrupted us. Maybe I could just let my business go to hell, and spend my days playing kinky games with Gabe until I turn myself inside out.

‘Really?’ I say, and he touches a cheeky tongue to his upper teeth. ‘And what else did you do, while you were there?’

He leans in, then, too close for comfort. Whispers in my ear as an old lady hurries past.

‘I tasted myself, on you.’

My world narrows down, to just his words. Not an anatomy lesson, not something he read out for me – his words, freely given. I kiss his cheek, as a reward, but somehow that’s even worse than the one I’ve just planted on his lips. So intimate and sweet – I can’t resist at all when his hand slides down my arm, and closes around mine.

It seems as though we’re supposed to do that, now. I guess it was only a matter of time.

We walk in silence to the cinema, getting a little wet around the edges. By the time we get there, I’m certain
The Hairdresser’s Husband
is a terrible idea. It’s all romance and tragedy and sex, people foofing around in French until you just want to drink coffee and have tortured affairs with the entire world.

Through the darkness, he whispers to me, ‘I’m not even a fan of French films. I prefer spaceships and aliens.’

And I want to cry, because that’s almost exactly what I wanted to tell him. But I don’t say anything at all, and then a little later he asks me if I think he’s uncultured, for saying so.

‘Why would I ever think that? You’re intelligent and well-read and …’

Stop. Stop.

‘… let’s just watch the movie.’

But of course we don’t just watch the movie. How can we, when I can’t keep my hands off him and apparently he can’t keep his hands off me? Even when he’s just got his fingers wrapped around mine, I can feel him stroking over my knuckles, methodically, one at a time. Pushing between each finger, in a way that seems lewd and is probably now intended as such.

And everything is only exacerbated by the orgasm I didn’t get, a few hours ago. I had almost retired to the bathroom myself, when the ache through my swollen sex got just a little too much. And by too much I mean: please come into the bathroom and catch me masturbating, so I can lick my come off your chest.

I still haven’t seen him without any clothes on.

‘Madison?’ he whispers. There are only two other people in the entire cinema, but as we all know by now he’s the considerate type. ‘Are you all right?’

I guess I must be visibly squirming in my seat. He’s not helping by continuing to rub between my fingers. His thumb makes it to my wrist, and I have to lean over and kiss him. It’s just a necessity.

On the screen, they’re sprawled on the floor. Doing stuff. If I can just hold off, I’m pretty sure she tops herself, soon. That’ll kill the mood of warm sensuous love-things, crawling all over me.

Though probably not the mood that his hand inside my coat is creating. I think he really, really likes my breasts, because he seems to have no qualms about fondling them, any more. Once the top three buttons are undone, it could be that he traces all the places he marked, earlier on.

‘Madison,’ he whispers, but it’s not a question this time. And I can hear words stirring against my ear before they’re even out, his hand now at my throat and my coat almost off.

So I push him back into his seat, and grab a handful of what he’s got between his legs.

His hands immediately go up and off me, hovering just above the armrests as though they’re on fire. As though he’s being held at a gunpoint.

‘Wait … wait …’ he says, but he was only too eager a second ago, when his hands were full of my tits.

I’m sure he intends to sit straighter and away from my grip, but he only winds up sinking in further, deeper. The chair ruffles his hair at the back, and the sandy jacket he’s wearing swallows him whole.

‘For what?’ I say, and I do so loudly. The person sitting three rows down and to the left turns his head, just every so slightly. And of course, Gabe notices.

But he doesn’t say what I expect.

‘Shouldn’t it be your turn, now?’

I kiss his mouth, before he can say anything worse. I don’t know what sort of person he’s becoming, but it’s just different enough from the person he was to be both disturbing, and as electric as ever.

He still does what I tell him to do. He still obeys me. But he pushes the armrest up between us, too. His hands go around my waist, right inside my coat.

I think we might be making out, in a movie theatre. I stir the silk over his erect cock, but it doesn’t change the fact that we’re kissing like teenagers, in a way I never did when actually that age. When my father died, that’s when I went on my first date.

I seem to remember being nineteen, but it’s hard to recall. Mostly I can just picture the backseat of his car, the slippery weight of his cock in my hand. Him asking me if I was ready, me laughing in response.

I rub harder, with the heel of my palm. He gusts a warm excited breath into my open mouth, before sliding his hand from my waist to cup my arse. Only I don’t think he’s just cupping my arse – I think he’s trying to slide my skirt up my thigh.

‘Madison,’ he moans, though I wish he’d stop saying my name. ‘Oh, that feels so good.’

I bet it does – all that smooth material slithering the length of his prick. The pressure of my hand, rubbing and rubbing.

‘You like that?’ I ask, and the person in front definitely turns around, now. I don’t blame him. We’re doing this to the credits.

‘I always like it. I like it so much – God.’ His head goes back against the sticky seat. ‘You do all the things I’ve ever wanted, always.’

‘Really?’ I say. I want to pull away, but I can’t. ‘Aren’t I cruel to you, Gabe? Am I not a bitch?’

He laughs. He actually laughs – though not unkindly. And when he looks at me, his eyes are bright and disbelieving.

My hand falls away, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

‘Yes. But it’s good. It’s so good. Everything you do, the way you look and act and speak – I never thought … I never thought I’d be so lucky.’ He touches the side of my face, just to cement the crashing impact. ‘You’re what I’ve always wanted. Everything about you is what I want.’

And then even worse, ‘You do know that, don’t you?’

* * *

When we get back to the shop, I tell him he should go. I don’t want to tell him that – I need to fuck so badly it’s making my insides weak. It’s making me want to shoot myself in the head. But, unfortunately, I don’t have a gun and instead there’s just Gabe’s concerned expression, as though he’s sensible of some wrong thing he’s done.

But it’s OK, Gabe, really. At least you didn’t tell me you loved me, while I gave you a handjob in the back of a cinema.

‘I just … need to be on my own for a little while,’ I say, but he’s much smarter than I’ve given him credit for.

‘I don’t think we’re boyfriend and girlfriend, you know,’ he says, while I try to stay calm. I think we are boyfriend and girlfriend. More so than I ever was with Greg or Kevin or what-the-fuck.

‘I know.’

‘We don’t have to be anything.’

‘Of course.’

‘You seem afraid of me. I kind of thought it was supposed to be the other way around.’

I almost laugh, at that. Despite the fact that I seem to have some sort of almighty intimacy issue that relates directly to him – one that he is, apparently, aware of – he almost laughs, too.