“Where are you going?” he asks lazily.
I look over my shoulder at him. He’s lying spread over the bed, the covers puddled low on his groin, showing the black bush of his pubes. His olive skin glows against the white of the sheets.
“Home,” I say cheerfully and laugh when he looks startled. “Did you think I’d moved in?”
He smiles at me. “Do you want a shower before you go?”
I look longingly towards the fantastically appointed bathroom but then shake my head. “Better not. I’ll never leave.”
Forestalling the usual awkwardness, I stand up and slide into my clothes while he lies on his back, his arms folded behind his head.
“Enjoying the show?” I say tartly, adopting a muscle-man pose.
He laughs. “Thank you,” he says.
“What for?”
He shrugs. “A good shag.”
That startles a laugh out of me, and I sit on the bed to put on my shoes. “I am rather good at it.” He grins and nudges me with his foot until I laugh again. “It was my pleasure.”
“Twice,” he reminds me.
I think of the second time when he’d pinned me to the bed and fucked me so hard I saw stars. “Mustn’t forget the twice,” I say solemnly as I stand.
“Wait.” He rolls over and grabs Charlie’s book out of the bag on the bedside table.
“What are you doing?” I ask as he rifles through the drawer.
“Looking for a pen.”
“Hope you’re not going to try to replicate that boring old shit,” I say, grabbing my jacket.
“I’d never try that,” he says solemnly. “It took long enough to write it in the first place.”
“What?” I gape at him as he opens the book and starts to scrawl something on the flyleaf. “What are you doing? That’s a birthday present you’re defacing there.”
He winks at me. “Just signing it for you, darling.”
“What?” I ask again, reaching over and grabbing the book. I open it and stare down at the page. The signature is a messy scrawl under the dedication, but it clearly says, Max Travers. I stare down at it and then look up at him. He’s lounging against the pillows, vastly amused.
“Oh my God, you’re the journalist?”
“The boring one? Yes, that’s me.”
My cheeks flush. “Why didn’t you say something?”
He shrugs, unholy laughter dancing in his eyes. “I wasn’t wearing my official journalist visor. And trying to keep up with your friend’s Aunt Val’s drinking plays havoc with a bloke’s reflexes.”
“Oh shit,” I groan. I look down at the picture on the dust jacket and blink. “Is that your –?”
“My official photo?” He nods. “Yep.”
“Good grief, that’s a rather threatening pose. I hope they treated you well in prison,” I say sympathetically. He starts to laugh, and I shake my head. “Well, I hope you’re happy now,” I say darkly. “I’m now going to have to buy another copy of your book for Charlie. I’m quite sure he’ll never understand why Max Travers, the famous journalist, thinks his arse is the best he’s ever had and that he should be knighted for his dedication to blowjobs.” He’s still laughing when I bend down to kiss him. “Thanks for the shag,” I say cheekily and make my way to the door.
Half of me doesn’t want to go, but I’ve got his measure. This isn’t the first time he’s done this or even the millionth. I look back at him in bed and freeze the pretty picture in my head and then leave the room with the sound of his laughter echoing in my ears.
I’m halfway home when my phone beeps. Digging it out of my pocket, I look down at the text and then give a startled laugh.
Max: Hope you’re home safely.
A smile plays on my lips as I tap on my phone.
Me: Why wouldn’t I be?
Max: Well, you were walking a bit funny. I was concerned that I’d shagged your coordination out of you.
Me: I think that only happens when people get to your advanced age.
He sends me back a one-fingered emoji, and I laugh.
Me: I cannot even begin to imagine how your number ended up on my phone?
Max: I put it in while you were in the bathroom. Thought it might come in handy.
Me: For what? If I ever happen to need my autobiography written?
Max: I’ve already got the title. ‘Sassy and Shagged Out’. It’ll be a bestseller.
My laugh echoes loudly on the bus, and I attract a few stares.
Me: I don’t need the money. Not now I’ve got a very personalised signed copy of your book. I’m sure I’ll be able to sell it for a fortune. I’ll go and live in the South of France on my yacht surrounded by the glamorous set who’ll bleed me dry and then leave me to bemoan my fate in a seedy piano bar before taking a drunken header into the sea.
Max: Are you sure you aren’t a writer?
Me: How will I know?
Max: Have you got a drinking problem?
Me: Not this afternoon.
Max: Then you should have my number just in case that drink problem rears its head.
Me: Very civic-minded of you, Journalist Max.
The bus pulls up at my stop, and I shake my head and shove my phone in my pocket, pushing him to the back of my mind. I’ll never see him again, but it was good fun, and he was an excellent shag. Dismissing him, I make my way home with a spring in my step and a lovely ache in my arse.
Chapter Three
Felix
I slide into the booth and look over the table. Max looks back at me. He’s lounging with his arm slung along the booth’s back.
I shake my head at him. “So, your ‘just in case you need my number’ actually translates to ‘I’ll text you if I fancy another shag’?”
He laughs and tilts his head to one side, waves of black hair brushing the shoulders of his oatmeal-coloured jumper. “And do you mind?”
I shrug. “Fuck no. I can’t help being a memorable shag. It brings all the boys to my yard.”
He grins. “I can quite see that.”
I take off my parka and wink at him. “Anyway, it takes all of the pesky work out of finding a shag. I approve.”
“What work?” He settles back in the booth as if preparing to be entertained. I smile at the waiter and give him my drink order before turning to Max and folding my arms on the table.
“Well, Max, let’s see. There’s the extreme toil of finding someone who fits all your sexual requirements and is open to doing that with a great deal of physical effort, minimum conversation, and absolutely zero commitments.”
He examines my face intently, not even glancing away when the waiter brings our drinks. I eye him as I take a sip of my Budweiser. “Have I broken you, or is it your age? Are you having a senior moment?”
He laughs, breaking the calculating look on his face. “You’re a cheeky little shit, aren’t you?”
“It has been said.” I put my drink down and eye him. “So, are we going to have a shag, or not? Time’s a-wasting.”
Someone nearby laughs at that and Max grins at me. “So forthright,” he murmurs.
“The privilege of age.” I look at him. “How old are you, anyway?”