Page 28 of In the Frame

He’s just a fantasy. But what a fantasy. My fingers slide into my boxers to tease myself.

And fuck, I shiver even at the thought of him, skin to skin.

I can’t stop thinking about the way he looked at me before we went into Sotheby’s. Like I mattered. Like I was important to him.

Which is a dizzying thought, one that’s too much to dare think about or acknowledge.

My hand works my cock, each stroke increasing in tempo, ’til I find myself breathless and stiff. I toss back the duvet and wriggle out of my boxers, the cool air bringing instant goose bumps.

Or is it imagining Florian that brings them? At the very least, this is good wank material, so I may as well enjoy the moment because no one will be the wiser.

Imagine his fingers between mine. Imagine his fingers on my cock. And his mouth, tasting me. His tongue like honey.

And God, he’s fucking sexy. Thankfully, my subconscious worked that out before my brain did.

Imagine him wanking. What a luxurious sight that would be, watching him get off in front of me.

My hand works faster. I groan, arching my back with pleasure. Greedy, impatient, I keep going ’til blood rushes in my ears.

And fuck, it’s moments later before the ache in my balls leaves me shuddering and spurting hot over my belly and hand, leaving a sticky mess as the very tangible result of my daydream.

I lie there, gasping for breath, legs trembling for a moment. The world spins.

God, I needed that. Finally, after lying there in a blissed-out state ’til I can at least catch my breath, I reach over for a tissue to clean myself off.

Enough of that, I tell myself firmly. It’s just attraction. It doesn’t mean anything real. Or that he feels the same way, or anything close. It’s just brain chemistry doing its brain chemistry thing over impossible situations.

But oh, that felt so fucking good. Even if Florian is nothing more than a wank fantasy.

Chapter Fourteen

I’m hopping around on one leg, trying to tug on my black leather Chelsea boot in an effort to look presentable for suit shopping. I’ve put on the smartest jeans I have and a black shirt that I went to the trouble of pressing, ready to run for the train and to meet up with my friends in Brighton.

To be honest, I’m totally freaking out because who can find a suit in two hours? Let’s face it, I’m so screwed—I’ll end up in my bartender’s trousers and uniform shirt at this rate. I should just borrow the apron too.

Right. Straightening, I pat myself down. Keys, phone, wallet.

At least Oxford Street’s around the corner. I should be able to find something, and I’ve got my Oyster card if I need to go further. But if I can’t find it around there, it’s probably not to be found. At half past nine, I’m out the door, as ready as it gets for speed shopping.

Where do I go? A department store? That seems sensible, doesn’t it? They have lots of selection. The last time I went suit shopping, I went with my mom, who was a bit more useful about these things than my dad, and it wasn’t that long ago. I’m definitely not qualified to shop alone for suits. And God help me if I need to call Richard to attend to me in some change room—I’ll probably end up garroted.

I go to one department store, then another, swiftly overwhelmed by choice. At 11:00 a.m., I stand outside to get some air as I press the heels of my hands into my eyes, miserable. I’m going to have to call Richard and explain I’m having a problem.

Except I really, really don’t want to do that.

My phone chimes, and it’s a text from Florian.

Did you find anything yet?

No. Cue despair

Five minutes pass with no response. I shift from foot to foot outside of Paul Smith’s, wondering if buying a suit from another Smith would be a good thing. Also—way out of my budget of approximately nothing. What happened to Florian? Was that the extent of his check-in? Now I’m left to flounder amid tourists and serious shoppers.

But my phone rings, and I pounce immediately. “Hello?”

“Sorry. I had to take a call,” Florian explains smoothly. “And how are you?”

“Terrible,” I wail wholeheartedly. I really have nothing to lose, and why hold back when I’m having a crisis? After all, I saw Florian through a couple of meltdowns on that Saturday night in the lift—it’s totally my turn. “I’m meant to be on a train to Brighton in an hour and I can’t find a suit and I’m going to disappoint Paul and Caden and it’s going to be rotten. I just had to do one thing, you know? Get dressed and show up on time. Why’s it so hard?”