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airydiction-blog · 3 years

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So...untitled unless you can suggest a good one...

Everything that happened yesterday has been preying on my mind. Concentration is out the window; my jobs list is getting longer every hour and my hands won’t stop fidgeting. It’s ridiculous, how something so innocuous and well-meant could have sparked something so visceral in me, so primal and all-pervasive that, by this point, I can barely think about anything else.

A birthday surprise – that’s all it had been nothing more. I’d had a tough week, one of the toughest, and he’d just thought it a nice gesture. And it was, really nice. It was the absolute MEness of it that astounded me. I mean, I’ve known this guy for a few years, but it’s not like we’ve spent that much time together, really. And yet, every aspect of what he’d organised was as if I’d sorted it all out myself. All my go-to feelgood pick-me-ups, wrapped up in a smiley, sweet and totally charming parcel. It was the end of the night that had started this, well, let’s call it unnerving train of thought.

As we’d wrapped up the evening, the dishes packed away from my solo gourmet treat, the deep ruby red wine drained from the glass and the candle snuffed, I’d wanted to express my thanks for such a thoughtful gesture. A hug, I thought, perfect. We’ve always got on well, had plenty of laughs, even confided a little in each other now and again. So yeah, a hug.

And as his arms slipped around me, my head had nestled perfectly into his neck, just so. As I was registering that little detail, the flat of his hand on my back sent waves of warmth through my t-shirt. It was the slightest snugging, the tiniest tightening of limbs around each other, but at that instant I didn’t want to move away, ever. Follow that with the contented lengthening of our twin breaths, and there’s your recipe for disaster.

Colleagues. Friendly, on/off colleagues, with a thirteen year age gap. And now we were overstepping. Or at least it felt like we were.

So I pulled away – but he had hold of my hands. And was looking at me. Like, LOOKING at me.

“OK,” I started. “Better call it a night, early doors tomorrow.”

“Yeah, shame,” he replied. “You’ve enjoyed it though?”

“Absolutely perfect, honestly. You’re a diamond.”

“You deserved it, all the shit you’ve had thrown at you this week,” and with that, he brought my hand up to his lips and kissed it. For a split second too long. And yet I let it sit there. Idiot.

“Tom – you know it’s…I mean, tonight’s been…um…” – my ability to form sentences appeared to have fucked right off.

“Yeah, I know, it has, wanted to treat you and stuff” –

“But it’s best to stop here, right? I mean, with work and things, it’s just, not the best idea…” – now who’s overstepping…wtf was coming out of my mouth?? Jesus.

His face told me that, rather than expecting this to go another way, he hadn’t expected this at all; hadn’t even hoped that the conversation – for want of a less flattering word for this exchange – would get that far. In a heartbeat, his little grin was back on his face, ready to disarm the world again.

“A guy can dream though, right?” And with another quick kiss on my knuckles, he made his way to the door with a “Night Connie – bright and early tomorrow then,” and was on his way, avoiding eye contact all the while.

Crap. Awkwardness abounded. I flopped down on the bench, biting my thumbnail like I do when I’m really not sure WHAT THE FUCK JUST HAPPENED. There was no denying that the closeness of him, the citrussy, grassy smell of the crook of his neck, the firmness of his arms around me had, let’s say, awoken some sleepy something but Christ alive, he’s way too young, way too megastarry and way too…way too what? Adorable? Charming? Bloody gorgeous?

All these inconvenient thoughts, and my oh-so-attractive nail biting were rudely interrupted by him coming back through the door with a start, saying that he’d forgotten his jacket. He paused after picking it up…

“Look, Con – I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make anything weird…it’s just, y’know, that hug felt really fucking good and you’re just gorgeous and everything…so yeah…I’m sorry. We’re cool, it’s all cool. Are we cool?” If anything emphasised that the lucky sod has youth on his side, that just did.

“Course we are,” I replied…then went back to thinking what I’d been thinking. Namely, what it might be like to actually snog his beautiful face off.

Fast forward to now, and as I said, I can’t concentrate on anything. I’m tidying rails and out of the corner of my eye I’m watching him leaping around on bungees on the sound stage. The problem is, rather than thinking that he looks like a right weirdo, what I’m actually noticing is the taut, springy litheness of him. The leaping around is absurdly graceful, muscles bunching and stretching with a dancer’s fluidity – it’s mesmerising.

With a force of will I dredge from somewhere, I snap myself back to reality, and crack on with the ever-growing jobs list.

I’m starting to regret knocking him back – which makes me question my sanity, honestly. He’s 24, I’m 37. He’s all ‘duuuude’ and TikTok and Berlin, and I’m all ‘pinot please’ and Facebook and Santorini. But I can’t stop thinking about his toned back, his crinkly grin and his gorgeous, gorgeous bum.

And then he bounds into the cabin, bang on time for a fitting. For the next ten minutes I am a consummate professional. A consummate professional with somewhat shaky hands. Everything is fine and dandy and calm and sensible until he’s turned to face me and I’m smoothing the shirt down across his chest and Jesus Christ he’s doing that look again, the look like my birthday night, when he had my hands.

After a couple of seconds he exhales, blowing hard through his mouth with a little laugh and looks up at the ceiling instead. “Sorry,” he mumbles.

But my hands are still on his chest, and his skin through the crisp cotton is really, I mean really, hot. I don’t want to move them. I can feel his heart thumping under my right hand. I smooth my hands down further to his waist, watching them go. I still can’t break the contact, and the firm ridges of his abs ripple past my fingers. Fucking hell, what am I doing? I look back up and those bloody eyes are there again, wide and intent on me, his eyebrows up.

“Um…you said it wasn’t the best idea…” he says softly. “I mean, I shouldn’t be reminding you, but…”

“I know. I’ve been wrong before though, believe it or not,” I reply.

And then he’s kissing me. All of a sudden he’s kissing me – softly, like he’s not quite sure he’s allowed. And honestly, the silly little whimsical Austen nerd inside me sighs and leans in for a deeply, fluttery romantic moment. As he presses his mouth more firmly onto me, I kick her out of the way and snake my arms around him. His toned, broad back feels so good under my hands, and I pull him to me – if he was harbouring any doubt as to whether he was allowed, that should do the trick.

We kiss, the tip of his tongue quickly tracing my top lip, my teeth nipping his bottom one, until our breaths are ragged – and we pause, foreheads together.

“Blimey,” he says, between heavy breaths. “That was unexpected.”

“You think?” I reply. “I think I was entirely clear and unambiguous in my intentions, actually.”

The wonky grin returns and so does the kissing. At least until we hear the others coming through…

A whole week’s gone by – hard to believe really, but the schedule’s been frantic and we’ve switched locations…which has meant, firstly, that we’ve had that utterly wonderful ‘snatched moments’ thing going on, like every fumbly, fledgling fling should have. The odd five minutes where no-one’s around at the end of the day, sneaky looks across lunch breaks, that kind of thing. The kind of thing I was doing years ago but has been tragically, frustratingly lacking in my life – till this little upstart arrived at least.

Yesterday was particularly delicious, as it goes. A bustly, no-time-to-breathe kind of day, where I was dealing with everyone except Tom, it seemed – until the very end of the day’s shooting where I had to make sure everything was ready to go in an instant in the morning, including the wardrobe he’d been wearing today. So in he walked, and promptly flopped onto the nearest stool, clearly dog tired from a full-on day, and already half out of his suit.

“Shitting hell it’s hot,” he sighed – a statement backed up with the flush in his cheeks, his sweat-beaded forehead and the prominent veins running down his arms. Oh lord.

“Yep,” I replied - he looked up at me, resting his head back on the wall of the cabin.

“Christ woman, I honestly don’t even know if I’ve got the energy to take advantage of you,” he said, with a lazy grin.

“Well, to be fair, you can take advantage slowly, if you really want,” I replied, which got us both laughing. “Are you sitting properly on that thing?”

He shuffled back slightly and I lowered myself slowly to straddle his lap. Taking his face gently in my hands, I kissed him soundly, savouring the saltiness on his lips. His hands came up from dangling limply at his sides to smooth around my hips, and he squeezed my bum, pulling me gently towards him. As a soft moan escaped him his mouth pushed more firmly onto mine, his tongue probing along my top lip. I don’t really want to know how a guy his age has become so good at something most of the men my age are still crap at, but I’m extremely grateful he has. I could honestly kiss him for days. With his hands still firmly on my bum, and the subtlest shift in the level of urgency with which he was squeezing it – the sounds of activity and people outside the cabin reached us. We paused – lips still locked – and with an exasperated sigh, drew apart.

“Probably a good thing,” he said, “falling asleep on you wouldn’t be a good look, I’m guessing?”

“Get to bed,” I replied. “But get your kit off and give me that bloody suit first…”

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