Chapter Twenty-Five #3
“No,” he says too sharply before calming himself and saying, “Please don’t do that…
If you do, I’m going home. And I’m not done with this yet.
” The look he gives me makes my blood fizz.
Although I’m certain he means he isn’t done with the holiday, part of me, the deluded, romantic part, wants it to be about us.
God, I hate that part of me. She’s so irresponsible.
A deep mix of fear and excitement rips through me, probably fuelled by the adrenaline of escape but maybe not, maybe it’s something else. Maybe I’m in more trouble here than I know.
As the footsteps behind us get louder and quicker – fuck, how many of them are there? – we get faster too. A half walk, half jog, my ankle hissing in pain.
There’s a deep, grumbling from the dark cloud that’s breezed in over the city and, as if out of nowhere, the heavens open. A cloak of rain sweeping over us like a paintbrush.
The dry city streets aren’t designed for this much water, and before we even reach the end of one alleyway, narrow, whizzing streams of water gush either side of us.
The footsteps don’t stop though. We’re still being followed.
Another crack of thunder and Gus is pulling me towards a house with a covered door frame.
My hair sticks to my shoulders, my hat floppy with the weight of the rain.
There’s barely any shelter at all, so he positions himself so that his large frame is keeping me dry, his back and head still being drenched from the downpour.
But he leaves enough space between us as if he’s being cautious of not overstepping again.
The next move is yours…
I appreciate it. I don’t like it.
I fist some of his t-shirt in my spare hand and tug him closer, pulling him off-balance, his chest pressing me into the door. His head drops, his gaze flicking between my eyes and lips, his soaked hair, dripping onto my forehead and running down my nose.
One drop finds its way to my lips and instinctively I lick it off.
His breathing deepens, his pupils expanding.
Our pursuers get closer. They slow, their footsteps on the cobbles quietening, but I don’t think they know we’re tucked around the corner, or they’d already be on us.
I can feel Gus’s heartbeat hasten against my palm.
I want to put him at ease. I want him to know that I’m not the kind of person to throw him to the wolves.
He can trust me.
When one of them checks around the side to get a better look, I whip my sodden hat off and hold it behind his head.
His eyes haven’t left my face. I think he’s waiting. Waiting for me to make a decision or confirm we’re safe? I can’t tell.
I peek around him to see if they’re still there.
The street is clear.
“I think we’ve lost them,” I whisper.
Gus doesn’t reply. But I don’t think he cares about them anymore. And now I’m this close to him again, the feel of his firm, solid body propped against mine, I’m not sure I do either. I can only think about one thing as I watch him run his teeth over his bottom lip.
Kiss me.
Except, I already know he won’t. Because I stupidly told him not to.
Now why did I do that?
Something really sensible about our lives and going separate ways.
Ah, screw it!
I press my lips to his in a hasty, chaste kiss. I pull back, half-expecting him to take it as permission, but instead he stays statue still. Is he ok? Did I read this completely wrong? Maybe he’s worried they’ll return? How deep is his trauma?
“I’m sorry,” I say, feeling his solid, tense body beneath my fingers as I run them over his shoulders, hoping to settle him. “I’m sorry, it’s just us.” His heart rate hasn’t slowed, his breathing somehow even deeper. I lean back to check his expression.
His lips are parted. “You call that making a move?”
“I’m sor—” I start to apologise again but before I can finish, Gus’s mouth is on mine, hungry and pressing. I gasp, grabbing him for support as he manages to bring himself even closer, his hips holding me in place.
I taste his breathy groan as I open to him, his tongue sliding with mine.
My heartbeat is now racing as fast as his, hands roaming lower.
I’m feverish with need. With the rain still hammering down behind Gus, I’m heartbroken to be interrupted when the door I’m leaning on is ceremoniously opened and an angry old man starts yelling at us.
Luckily, Gus was already supporting my body from getting pressed too hard against the door, his hand on the frame, so I don’t fall.
“Pardon,” Gus says, cringing, that glint in his eye telling me he finds this hilarious and then before I know what’s happening, my hand is enveloped in his and we’re running in the direction of the yacht again.
The torrential downpour only adds to the hilarity of our situation.
We hop a raised curb to access the path along the portside but it’s like jumping a brook. I miss, dipping one foot in and slipping.
“Bollocks,” I hiss when it feels like an explosion has gone off in my ankle.
I slow, reaching down to grab it. Before I can get there, Gus swoops me into his arms and carries me the rest of the way.