Page 34 of Best Wrong Thing

“Oh, I dunno. Maybe because I told you my running route yesterday, and now here you are.”

“Here I am.”

He stops and stretches. “I’m glad you came.”

I can’t speak. A lump has formed in my throat. He’s stunning, sassy, sexy, and fuck do I want him. I step forward, cup his jaw, and peck his lips. He tastes of mint. His upper lip is damp with salty sweat.

“You can do better than that,” he whispers.

I can. I want to. I will. I grab the waistband of his shorts, pull him against me, stroke his jaw, and kiss him hard. I pour weeks of frustration into the kiss. He settles his hands on my hips and battles my tongue with his. He whimpers and moans, spurring me on to kiss him longer, harder, deeper. I don’t everwant the kiss to end. I’m a trembling, quivering wreck. My lips tingle. Warmth travels out from every point of contact with him, flooding around my body, rushing towards my cock, which stiffens. So does his, pressing against me.

I have to breathe.

He chuckles. “Where’s a balloon sword when you need one to hide your hard-on? That was a nice surprise.” He licks his damp, swollen lips.

I still can’t speak. What am I doing? Giving in. I can’t think beyond the moment and my pulsing desire. I want him. Why didn’t I go to his flat and tell him that? Why did I seek him out here?

Things can’t get out of hand. They’re already out of hand.

I kiss him again. I’m caught in a fever dream. Desperation and need drive me to tangle my tongue with his. Press my lips against his. Devour him. Savour him. Touch him. Taste him. He brushes his fingers back and forth over my hips and inches my T-shirt up, finding skin. I shiver and tear my lips from his.

“Jacob,” he whispers.

I smother his lips again. I need him, but I can’t let myself stop and think. This is why I’m here on the towpath. If we were in his flat, we’d be on his bed. I’d be taking his clothes off. I’d be drowning in the beauty of his naked body, and that would be a mistake.

I pull away and wipe his saliva from my lips.

“Jacob?” He touches my shoulder.

“I’m sorry.”

“What for? Never apologise for a kiss like that. Fuck, it was good.”

I hunch my shoulders. “I shouldn’t have come here. I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

He steps in front of me and cups my cheek. “I wanted you to. I want a lot more.”

“So do I, but we shouldn’t.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

He nuzzles my jaw. “We’re consenting adults who aren’t related. We can do whatever the fuck we want, Jacob.”

“Aren’t related by blood. We are related.”

“Only because Mum happened to marry your dad five seconds ago.”

“It’s been a little longer than five seconds.”

“Barely.”

“It matters.”

“Why?”

Whydoesit matter? Why can’t I be like him and decide it doesn’t? I hate being so uptight, but it’s the way I’ve been raised.