Chapter 5 #2
“Afghanistan. Reuben, are you listening to me?”
“I always listen to you. It’s what I was put on this earth for. Well, that and being able to touch my toes without drinking a vat of Cinzano first.”
The young man snorts, and I fight the urge to smile at him.
“I’m concerned about you going back to Afghanistan,” Grey says. “You only just got back for fuck’s sake. It’s too soon.”
“It’s fine.”
“You need to recover.”
I blink. “From what?”
“Oh, I don’t know. How about the teeny issue of being in a warzone for three months? You’re living on your nerves, and what happened to Max and Ivo can’t help.”
“I’m not talking about that,” I say, unable to keep the harsh note from my voice.
“Please, Reuben. Can’t you just say no to Jez? It’s not difficult. It’s one word. You don’t even need to break out multiple syllables to make your point.”
“It’ll be fine.”
“You should have that engraved on your gravestone.”
“I don’t think so. They charge by the word, you know. Just carve it with Reuben Langley Lives Here.”
Half my attention is on the young man who’s attempting to order a beer from the barman, who’s looking at him doubtfully.
“I’ve got to go, Grey,” I say.
“Ring me before you leave.”
“Of course I will. I live to hear your voice, and I don’t want to go anywhere without giving you the chance to compose another lecture.”
“You lie.”
“Yes, of course.”
I click to end the call, his laughter making me smile. Then I turn to the event happening next to me.
“I am over eighteen,” the boy insists. His voice is low and lovely, with an undercurrent of amusement mixed with indignation. “I have all my own pubic hair, and I even remember when the last episode of SKAM France aired.”
“I don’t think that either of those things stands as a guarantor, but well done on the sole ownership of the pubes,” the barman says, his lips twitching.
I chuckle. “Get him an orange juice, and I’ll have another beer, please.”
He nods and moves away. The boy huffs and turns to me. “I am actually nineteen, you know. I even have the wrinkles to prove it.”
I bite my lip to stop myself from laughing. “Show me.”
He leans closer, his manner endearingly flirtatious, and pulls his hair away from his face. “There. Can you see them?”
I whistle. “Wow, you were right.”
“I know. I often am.”
“You have more age lines than Mick Jagger.”
“Who’s he?” When I blink, he shoves my arm. “Joking. I know who he is.”
“You do?”
“Yeah, of course. Everyone knows the prime minister.”
“The country would indeed be a strange place if that were the case. And we’d probably be fiscally a lot better if we had less satisfaction.” I smile.
He returns it with a cheeky dimple showing briefly in his cheek. “I can see you don’t believe in my wrinkles,” he says in a mock-sad voice. “Which is terribly tragic.”
“I’m sure you’ll survive.”
The barman sets our glasses down, and I smile my thanks before turning back to this gloriously flirty boy. I already feel lighter from this exchange than I have all year. He’s gorgeous and way too young for me, but I’m still enjoying it.
I tap my glass against his. “Chin chin.”
He pouts. “Shame it isn’t gin.”
“Ah, a slogan for the world.”
He takes a sip, and heat kindles in my stomach as moisture sheens his lower lip. It’s as full and biteable as a cherry. He turns and catches my gaze and then deliberately licks along that lip, showing a pink tongue.
I shift on the stool, feeling my jeans get a whole lot tighter.
“Tease,” I say gruffly and can’t help but smile when he laughs.
It’s such a lovely sound—exuberant with youth and full of glee.
My smile dies as he spins on his stool, facing me.
He opens his legs, forcing his body closer to mine, and I catch a fresh, warm scent.
I spare a quick look around, but the barman is talking to a couple at the end of the bar, and the only other patron is a lone businessman having a heated discussion on his phone.
A hand slides up my thigh, and I jerk, reaching down to grab it. “What are you doing?” I say hoarsely.
His eyes widen mockingly. “Oh, dear. I’m so sorry.”
I blink. “What about?”
He wriggles his hand and pouts when I don’t let go. “I’m sorry your advanced age has led you to not be able to recognise a come-on.”
I swallow. “A come-on?”
He nods solemnly. “Yes, indeedy.” He wriggles his fingers again, and my body acts before my brain can scream a warning.
I let go, and he slides his fingers up my thigh slowly.
His ocean eyes are sleepy and heavy-lidded like he’s already been thoroughly fucked.
My thoughts fly away as he cups the length of my cock.
“Nice,” he says throatily.
For a second, I sway towards him, consumed by the need to bite that lower lip and then soothe it with my tongue. My cock is throbbing. Then reason returns, and I grab his hand, setting it back on the bar.
“Rest easy, Sergeant,” I say wryly. “My cock and I like my men to be legal. Silly of me, I know. I’m such a sentimental old fool.”
“But I am legal,” he says crossly.
I pat his hand. “I really don’t think so, kid.”
“I actually have my birth certificate to prove it.”
I stare at him. “So why didn’t you show the barman?”
His eyes twinkle. He has a merry feel about him, like laughter is just waiting to peek out.
He leans even closer. So close I can smell the minty scent of his breath.
A strand of blond hair falls over his face, and I clench my fist to stop from brushing it back.
“Ah, well, there’s a teeny problem with that. ”
“What problem is that?”
“It’s down my pants.”
I start to laugh. It’s too loud, but he amuses me.
He grins. “No, really. I’ll let you retrieve it, but no one else. A boy has to have some standards.”
“Retrieve? I’m not a cocker spaniel.”
He studies me, assessing. “No, not at all. I’d say you’re something completely different.”
The silence stretches between us, slow and treacly. “And what—” I stop to clear my throat. “And what would that be?”
He puts his hand on my shoulder and whispers into my ear, “I think you’re a wolf.”
I shudder at his breath washing over my ear. “Is that right?” Jesus. He’s fucking potent.
He nods. “Yep. And you don’t even bother to wear sheep’s clothing.” We stare at each other, and then he turns away and drains his juice. Disappointment sears through me that’s far too intense for what was just a silly flirtation.
“You off?” I say hopefully casually.
He nods, climbing off his stool. He stretches his lean body, and his T-shirt rides up, showing a delectable golden strip of skin, tight and defined. I swallow hard. “I’m going to my room for a lie down,” he says.
“Oh, that’s nice,” I reply, completely inanely.
He offers me a crooked smile. “Well, it could be very nice. For you,” he adds in case I didn’t get the message. Before I can say anything, he leans in and whispers, “Room thirty-nine.” Then he’s gone.
I stare at the empty doorway, completely nonplussed. Did he just say what I think he said?
“Another?”
I turn to find the barman watching me. “Eh?”
He gestures to my glass and says patiently, “Do you want another?”
I should do. I should have another drink, and then go to my room. I should be sensible because that kid might be over eighteen, but it’s not by much, and I’m thirty-five in human years, but more often lately I feel like I’m ninety.
His brow rises, and I shrug. “No, I’m fine, thank you.”
Grabbing my bags I leave the bar, heading towards reception to check in.
The receptionist talks to me, but I’m lost in thought and her voice sounds as if she’s underwater.
I suddenly realise that she’s holding my keycard out to me and I hasten to take it with a smile of thanks.
I walk away and find myself standing in front of the lift.
I look down at the keycard. Room twenty-two.
Second floor. I should head up there now, unpack, and maybe have a kip before the dinner.
I press the button for the third floor.