The Road Trip(21)

I’m lying there hoping for a knock on the door, if I’m honest. I’ve finally started to drift off when it comes, and for a moment I think I’ve dreamt it. But there it is again, a soft double-tap.

I sit up sharply in bed. My mouth tastes stale and my lips are dry. God knows what my hair looks like. I dash to the bathroom to run a toothbrush around my mouth and scrape my knotted hair up into a messy bun. It looks too ‘done’ – I redo it. By the time I get to the door, the sleepy eyes I’m blinking Dylan’s way are totally fake. I’m wide awake now. The night air is still warm, and as Dylan steps inside the flat he brings the smell of sun-baked vines with him.

‘I wasn’t sure you’d wake,’ he whispers as I click the door shut behind us. ‘You strike me as a heavy sleeper.’

I am, actually. My ex always complained that I snore way too loudly for such a small person, but that doesn’t feel like the sexiest of admissions, so I shake my head.

‘I was . . . not exactly waiting, but . . .’ I flush, already wishing I’d said something that sounded more assertive. More like Summer Addie.

A slow smile grows on his lips. His eyes turn cocky again. He’s wearing that put-on confidence he had when he first turned up on my doorstep. He reaches one hand out and takes mine, tugging me gently towards him.

‘I feel we left a few things unsaid,’ he tells me, voice low.

I step close enough that I have to tilt my chin up to look at him. Just his hand in mine is enough to start my pulse racing again. His floppy brown hair is all styled now, falling artfully over his forehead. Somehow it makes him look even scruffier.

‘Oh?’ I breathe. ‘Unsaid?’

‘Perhaps I mean undone,’ he says, dropping my hand to undo the buttons on the cami I wore in bed. His fingers move slowly, starting at the top, his knuckle brushing against my breast as he unbuttons. He doesn’t shift the fabric until every button is done. I’m already breathing hard when he finally pushes the straps back over my shoulders and lets the cami pool to the floor behind me.

We’re still in the kitchen – we’ve barely moved a few paces from the front door. For a moment he just looks down at me. His eyes are wide, lips parted. My breath hitches. Then he moves, backing me up, his hands shifting down to my waist, his lips closing in on mine. My back hits the door hard just as our tongues touch.

This kiss isn’t a first kiss, it’s foreplay. I lose track of time, of everything, drowsy with wanting, hearing myself moan, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt until he breaks away from me to yank it over his head. When my bare skin touches his we both gasp.

‘Christ,’ he says, pushing my hair back with one hand as he lowers his lips to mine. ‘You’re killing me already.’

I writhe against him, one leg lifting, pyjama shorts ruching. I’m unbuckling his belt when the knock comes at the door behind me.

I jump so much my teeth knock into Dylan’s with a jolt. We stumble away from the door, tangled together. Dylan spins just in time to shield me from view as Uncle Terry pokes his head around the door.

For God’s sake. Terry is absolutely the sort of man who knocks right at the same time as he turns the door handle, isn’t he?

‘Yoo-hoo!’ he calls. ‘Maddy? Oh, well, hello, you two!’ He chuckles. ‘Am I interrupting?’

I cringe back into Dylan, burying my face in his chest. His arms close around me. Maddy. I get called that one a lot, and Ali, and Annie.

‘Go away, Terry,’ Dylan says. ‘Go outside until the lady’s decent, for God’s sake.’

‘Whatever you say, Dylan!’ Terry says, chortling, and I hear the door click shut again.

‘Oh, God,’ I say into Dylan’s chest.

‘Fuckity bollocking arsehole Uncle Terry,’ he says, moving to fetch my camisole and his shirt off the kitchen floor. He’s breathing so heavily his chest is heaving. I’m not much better.

‘I can still hear you, my boy!’ Terry calls.

‘What are you doing knocking on her door at two in the morning!’ Dylan yells so loudly I jump.

‘What are you doing knocking on her door at two in the morning, that’s what I’d like to know,’ Terry calls back.

‘I think it’s pretty obvious what I was doing,’ Dylan says, running an exasperated hand through his hair. ‘And her name is Addie. Not Maddy.’

I snort with laughter. This is obviously horrifying and not at all funny but also . . . It is a bit funny. That yoo-hoo as Terry stuck his head around the door.

‘I heard a commotion,’ Terry says. ‘When I came down for a snack. Thought I’d better check the lady was all right!’

‘I’m fine, thanks, Mr Abbott,’ I call, then cover my face with my hands. ‘Oh God,’ I whisper.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Dylan says beseechingly. His hair is sticking up all over the place and his lips are swollen. The bravado is gone. He’s even sexier this way. A little lost-looking.

I stand on tiptoes to press a slow kiss against his neck. I feel his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows back a groan.

‘Another time,’ I whisper. ‘You know where to find me, now.’





Dylan

She’s mesmerised me. I’m Odysseus at Circe’s island, I’m Shakespeare’s Romeo, I’m – I’m nursing an almost-permanent erection.