Chapter 3 #2
The streets are fairly busy when we step out of the restaurant.
It looks like most people are heading for the bar right next door.
The crowd is spilling out onto the street around the building, everyone drinking and flirting, some even dancing drunkenly on the sidewalk.
There’s a strong smell of booze overlaying the salty scent of the ocean, a din of laughter and music filling the air.
“Come on,” Flynn says, grabbing my hand and pulling me in the opposite direction.
The crowd thins the farther we get down the street, becoming almost non-existent by the time we reach the huge beach houses—more like beach mansions.
The noise from downtown has faded as well, little more than an echo in the distance.
The area is dark, save for a few porch lights, and I’m starting to wonder if Hennessy was putting us on about the beach parties. Maybe he was trying to trick us into going somewhere alone, like a little nudge for us to hook up. If so, I’m going to go back and slip him an extra tip tomorrow.
Flynn cuts away from the street, a mischievous grin on his face as he drags me between two of the houses, in the direction of the private beach behind them.
“We’re going to get into trouble,” I whisper, feeling every bit a teenager sneaking around where I know I shouldn’t be. My feet sink into the dry sand as it catches my sandals and weighs them down, making me stumble.
Flynn tightens his grip on my hand to steady me. “We’re not going to get into trouble.”
The orange glow of a bonfire comes into view, the gentler sounds of a much more chill party than the one going on in the streets reaching our ears.
There’s the skunky smell of pot hanging in the air as we get closer.
Some dude in a fedora is sitting on a piece of driftwood playing “Sweet Caroline” on his acoustic guitar, a joint dangling from his lips.
Did they hire him to be a cliché? If so, money well spent.
Flynn stops to kick off his shoes, and I do the same, holding my breath as we slip in among the group, afraid we’re about to be caught as party crashers and sent packing. Instead, a cute slim guy with pink hair and a septum piercing hands us each a beer out of a cooler.
“Welcome to the party,” he says. “Goose.” He offers his hand, so I’m assuming that’s his name and not as random as it seems.
“With a name like that, I’m betting you’re local,” I joke, and his smile widens.
“Yup. Been here ten years and counting. It’s the best place in the whole damn world.”
“Oh yeah? What makes it so special?” I ask, curious about the shine in his eyes when he talks about the island.
His smile widens. “Find me one other place where you could go to a frighteningly accurate fortune-teller who rocks the hell out of a pair of fishnet stockings, get yelled at by a chef who cooks food so good you’d literally kill your mother for some, and hear a million ridiculous and romantic ghost stories all within a five-mile radius. ”
Flynn and I trade a look. There’s something special under the sex-crazed surface of this whole place, for anyone willing to dig a little deeper.
“Goose,” one of the guys calls from the other side of the bonfire, waving him over when he gets Goose’s attention.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Goose says primly before slipping away and promptly climbing onto the other guy’s lap before shamelessly shoving his tongue into the dude’s mouth.
I share an amused smile with Flynn, both of us cracking the tops off our bottles and clanking them together before taking a drink.
The heat from the fire adds to the warm humidity of the night, smoke billowing into the air and tickling our noses.
The burning driftwood has a distinct smell like summer set on fire.
The ocean is calm, the reflection of the half-moon picture-perfect in the background of the party. Flynn’s arm brushes against mine, and I turn my head to find him looking at me with a grin, the firelight casting hypnotizing shadows that dance over his face.
For some reason, I think about the picture of the guy at the restaurant, Harold Tellinson.
I know it’s silly to buy into the idea that the ghost of some old, hopeless romantic haunts the island, making love connections wherever he goes, but damn if it doesn’t feel like some kind of divine intervention to find myself here, in this moment, with Flynn after all these years.
I realize I’m staring at him, studying his face in the firelight while my heart beats faster, the drink in my hand forgotten. He hasn’t looked away either though. His dark-brown eyes bore into mine without a word.
“What are you thinking about?” I ask, taking a sip from my beer just to have something to do with my hands.
“I’m thinking about how fucking stupid I was not to kiss you when I had the chance,” he admits. My heart flails and the slick bottle nearly slips through my fingers.
“Better late than never.”
A slow smile spreads over Flynn’s mouth, and without another second of hesitation, he grabs me by the back of the neck and drags me toward him.
When his lips meet mine, I do drop my drink, and I couldn’t possibly give less of a fuck about my beer currently spilling into the sand at my feet because Flynn Fucking Vale is kissing me.
FLYNN
I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve imagined what it would be like to kiss Real.
But now I know not a single one of those fantasies has a damn thing on this moment.
His tongue is hot and slick against mine, the flavor of salt and sunshine on his lips.
The stubble on his chin drags against mine, and he steps closer.
The tink of his beer bottle being kicked barely registers, same goes for the wet sand around our feet.
I wrap my arms around him and haul him against me.
He grabs onto the back of my neck and kisses me even deeper as if he’s been half as desperate for this moment as I have.
“Get a room,” someone taunts from the other side of the bonfire.
“Hell no, put on a show for us,” someone else disagrees, which garners a few cat calls from the group.
“Decisions, decisions,” Real jokes, taking a step back and wiping the back of his hand over his mouth. He looks wistfully out at the ocean and then back at me.
“Come on.” I hold out my hand and tilt my head toward the empty part of the beach, where the firelight isn’t quite reaching.
He casts a quick look back at the group and then follows behind me, wading through the heavy sand and gripping my hand tighter.
“Where are we going?” he asks.
“Away from prying eyes.”
There’s just enough light from the house porches and the moon that we manage to navigate through the dark until we find a secluded spot down the beach. The soft sound of the small party and the whoosh and splash of the ocean keep the night from being too quiet.
When I stop walking, Real turns to face the ocean, tilting his head against my shoulder and leaning into me. “It’s beautiful.”
I glance down at him, mesmerized by the shadows the night casts on his face, the ethereal glow of the moon reflecting off his skin. “Hell yeah, it is,” I agree, sliding a hand behind his neck and pulling him in for another kiss.
This one is a little slower, more of an exploration as we move our lips against each other, neither of us seeming to be in any kind of hurry.
Our noses bump and our breathing syncs. He grips the front of my shirt and sighs into my mouth.
I catch the sound with my tongue and swallow it greedily, deepening the kiss and pulling him closer.
There’s no way any of those Parisian assholes kissed him like this. And if they did, I’ll just have to keep doing it until he forgets that anyone existed before me, before us…well, before this version of us anyway.
Why the hell did I wait so long to do this? I should have found the courage to look him up years ago. It’s a tragedy to think of all the kissing we’ve missed out on. I guess that just means we have a lot of lost time to make up for.
Real slips a hand under my shirt, dragging his fingers along my belly, tickling and teasing at the same time. My skin twitches under his touch, my cock aching, pressed between us, meeting the matching hardness between his legs.
Our kisses slowly transform from slow and sweet to desperate, his lips getting rougher against mine as I start to tug absently at his clothes, not trying to undress each other yet, but unable to keep our hands from trying. We grind together, panting into each other’s mouths.
I knead his ass cheeks in both hands, thrusting my hard, aching cock against him and feeling his in return.
The humidity of the night makes my skin sticky, and my feet sink into the soft, damp sand.
It would be a lot classier to take him back to my hotel room before I do all the things I’ve dreamed about for years, but fuck classy.
I can’t think of a damn thing in the world that I want more than Real, right here in the wet sand, the two of us getting filthy together.
Without warning, I use my grasp on his ass to haul him into my arms, lifting him up until he wraps his legs around my waist, gasping around my tongue in surprise. Another excellent selling point for all the time I’ve spent sculpting my muscles.
I slowly sink to my knees, grunting against his lips with the slight strain of his extra weight as I carefully lower him onto the sand.
We fumble with each other’s pants, popping buttons and tugging zippers.
My hard, aching cock springs free, slapping against his hip.
Real groans, reaching between us and wrapping his fingers around my base, giving me a slow, full stroke like he wants to make himself familiar with every inch.
When he nears the head, his hand grazing over the sterling silver barbell I have through the piercing in my frenum, he makes a low, hungry sound, thrusting his hips and nipping at my lips.
“Fuck, that’s hot,” he pants against my mouth.