Epilogue #2
“Yes. But maybe Elsa can come along occasionally.” I stalk over to the bed, the satin shirt fluttering like a whisper over my skin. “But I’m going to need a human partner to use for demonstrations, and I thought maybe you might want to join me, babe.”
“Me?” For a second, Alaric’s hand stills on his cock.
I smile down at him. “There’s no other babe in my life.”
He breaks out into a grin. “Never will be either, if I’ve got any say in the matter. But… I’m… I’ve never salsa’d anywhere!”
“Which is great for when it comes to teaching others.”
“OMG, yes, Big G! Yes!” My hips are already thrusting.
I’m literally in heaven. I can picture us—the spins, the cute shimmies, the sensual meeting of groins.
“Your big hands around my waist, your biceps rippling under the silky fabric of your—will you wear the shirt? Promise me you’ll wear the shirt. ”
I fold a handful of the loose satin draped around my shoulders in my fist and tease it across my nipple. Alaric makes an appreciative sound. Perhaps we’ll incorporate a few silky fabrics into our lovemaking too.
“I’m going to need more than one shirt, babe. Maybe a whole wardrobe of them.”
“I’m even higher than heaven,” he breathes.
I kneel-walk up Alaric’s slim body until I straddle his chest, tip the last of his champagne down my throat, and then place the glass out of harm’s way. (I’m drunk, not reckless.) I glide a fingertip along my hard length. Alaric wets his lips in anticipation of what’s coming.
“You want to get closer, babe?” I stroke myself again. “You want to touch this prize like you’re touching yourself?”
Alaric’s hazed blue eyes open wide. “Me? I don’t have the right to touch rosettes I haven’t earned.”
“So be a good boy and earn the right now.”
My dick and the rosette dangle inches from his lush mouth. Alaric’s breath is a cool breeze over my tip as he beams up at me, all gappy smile and glossy lips, like I’m his sun, his stars, and his fucking moon.
I’m winning first prize in life, never mind a dog show.
ALARIC–ONE YEAR LATER
“Cosy? Cosy? It’s a fucking cupboard.” The flat is advertised as suitable for young professionals. Very young; anyone over the age of about fourteen can’t stand up in it.
“It’s a period cupboard,” Gerald corrects. “This is a period property.”
“Which fucking period? The day after the Blitz?”
Declarations of love often come with someone asking you to move in with them, but Gerald and I kind of skipped that part.
So we’re shaking things up by moving out.
Gerald’s done the sums (OMG, has he ever) regarding how much mortgage we can afford.
He’s selling the flat, and we’re buying a new place together.
I’d like to say it’s because I’ve turned into such a fucking grown up these days, but it’s more because I’ve accidentally discovered the biggest life hack ever: get yourself a boyfriend who loves adulting and let him do all of it for the both of you.
I’d also like to say we’re looking for flats closer to the centre of London. And Gerald did suggest it; he really did. But—nope. What with the salsa school, a commitment to walking Elsa every day, Gerald’s job, and our combined modest budget, we’re staying in Sutton Common.
What’s more… I don’t mind. In fact, I’ve grown fond of the place.
A new French bistro, opened up near the station, does the most mind-blowing charcuterie boards known to man.
The wine bar opposite isn’t bad, either.
When we do occasionally go out on the town, we stay over at Alan’s in Putney.
We have a room there now, just for us, and Sandra cooks an amazing breakfast next morning.
“This place almost fulfils all of your criteria,” I point out at the next viewing. His criteria, by the way, make the Bayeux tapestry look short. My feet ache, and I’m ready to sit down, preferably on Gerald.
“Hmmm. Almost,” he agrees.
I thought I’d met every type of flat hunter imaginable.
But that was before I fell in love with Gerald, back in the na?ve days of believing exacting meant someone demanding perfection, not my entrails.
This is flat viewing number thirty-three—not all on the same day, thank fuck, although it sometimes feels like it.
To every single one, Gerald brings a tape measure and a spreadsheet. Can’t lie, I kind of fucking dig it.
He cocks his head to one side, examining his list of criteria before treating me to a serious stare. So hot. “But would you marry someone almost right?” He wiggles the slugbrows. “I wouldn’t.”
I swoon. We are so going to be having hardcore sexing later.
He’s mentioned marriage twice recently. And he paused momentarily when we strolled past the jewellers on our way to this viewing.
The little army of rings in the window, all smug and sparkly, sat there like they know I want to be spanked by a hand that has our wedding band on it.
While the estate agent chats to the owner in the hallway, I reach up to Gerald, lowering my voice. “There’s an all-night curry house two doors down. I mean, I’m not against living that close to a curry house. But not one averaging 2.3 stars on Uber Eats. No fucking way.”
“And did you see the worm in the kitchen?” Gerald whispers. “Near the back door.”
My eyes dart to the hallway. “That’s not a very nice way to talk about the estate agent.”
Chuckling, Gerald drags me closer. He kisses my temple, hard and fast. “Love you.”
“Love you, too. Wanna go home and do some sexing?”
Another kiss lands at my temple. “Why not?”
And so we go on.
Maybe we’ll view another thirty-three flats, maybe the next one we visit will be our forever home. Maybe Gerald will propose, maybe he won’t. Or maybe I’ll grab a couple of those sparkly rings and propose myself.