Café au Lay: Pt. 01

I'm flushed when I walk into the café, still warm from the cycle over. My legs ache pleasantly, t-shirt clinging and my hair has gone wild in the wind. I drop my bag at a corner table and head to the counter to order a coffee, already thinking through code. When I sit down again, I open my laptop and before long I'm deep in it; the OAuth flow, authentication layers, scopes and permissions. I'm half-lost in the logic when someone sets a cup down beside me.

"Alice?"

I tense a little at the sound of my name and look up. It's a young waiter, I don't think I've ever spoken to him and he didn't take my order. So how does he know my name? He smiles and it's not a wide, customer-service smile; it's something smaller and there's a definite glint in his eyes. I thank him, a little distracted, and as he walks away I follow him with my gaze. He must be in his early twenties, long-limbed, easy in his body, his hair a little overgrown and eyes bright.

I refocus myself on my work project but before long he's back, hovering near my table and firing off some loud joke to a coworker, elaborately gesticulating his arms. There is something performative about it and I can't help but look. Then he glances directly at me, his eyes holding mine just for a second with an intense kind of stare, before he turns and stalks across the cafe, whipping a towel over his shoulder as he strides away.

My heart is hammering a little and I find I can't get back into my work, so I drain my coffee, pack up, and stop at the toilet. I freshen up, splash cold water on my neck and stare at myself in the mirror. My tight black leggings hug my hips, my thighs and accentuate the curve of my waist. My hair's a mess and there's colour in my cheeks. For a moment, I let myself wonder. Could a boy like that, so much younger, really be interested in me? I dismiss it and head towards the front entrance; I'm being silly, fantasist. I unlock my bike at the back of the café, fingers fumbling with the combination, then I hear.

"Alice."

I turn, it's him, closer now. Just standing there, quiet. He doesn't say anything else. He's just looking at me in a way that is unnaturally still and strange, like he's waiting for something. I offer a smile.

"Everything okay?"

He steps closer, holding out his hand and I stare at it for a moment, unsure. Then I take it. There's a spark, not metaphorical, actual static, or something that feels like it. He pulls me gently towards a side door and I follow.

The storeroom is small and warm, lit only by a sliver of daylight through a crack. We're surrounded by shelves stacked with boxes and the air smells like ground coffee, cardboard and something like vanilla. It's stuffy. No windows.

He hasn't touched me properly and his hands are still grasped firmly around mine. I see his eyes in the gloom just watching, studying my face, my body. Searching for something in the shape of me. I close the space between us, uncouple my fingers form his and slide my hands under his T-shirt. His skin is hot and he's lean in that natural way young men often are. He lets out a long breath, slow and quiet, like he's been holding it in for hours. He whispers my name and it vibrates in the space between us.

"Can I?" he asks, but doesn't finalise his request.

I kiss him, my mouth warm and open. His hands barely move, just resting at my waist, fingers trembling. He kisses like he means it, not rushed, as if he's savouring the moment. Then, slowly, he starts to touch me.

Every part of him is careful. His hands glide along my arms, my hips, the backs of my thighs. Not grasping, it's light and lingering, his fingers curious. He is learning every part of me with his palms, like I am the first real woman he's been allowed to touch. I let him lower my leggings and he crouches, kissing the skin above my hip bone. His mouth on me is soft and wet, tongue moving gently but with purpose. I'm already throbbing when he presses his lips between my legs. His tongue glides over me, pulsating slowly, before he pulls at my hips to latch onto me. The he sucks, gently at first, but as my breath catches in my throat he goes harder, pushing his face into me with more force. I'm lost in the sensation. My hips lift without thought, chasing the rhythm of his mouth. He moans, low and raw, and the sound hums against my skin. I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek, one hand pressed over my mouth. Every nerve is lit. Every part of me is aching to cry out.

His hands tighten around my hips as his mouth works deeper. My breath shudders and a sharp gasp that wants to escape gets caught in my throat. I can't make a sound, not here, not with the wall so thin and the low murmur of voices just metres away. But he's not easing up, he's figured out how to make me twitch and now he's chasing it. Tongue circling, dragging me to the edge with agonising precision as I try not to let the noise clawing at my throat get out. When I come, I clutch the shelf behind me and gasp, barely able to breathe. The quiet in the room makes it feel even louder. My name spills from his mouth again, it's a prayer which melts into the heat of my skin. Then he rises, pulling my leggings and underwear back over my thighs and when he kisses me again I can feel him against me, hard, straining. He looks at me like I'm made of gold.

"Can I stroke you from behind?" He asks.

I don't speak. I just turn and lean forward, placing my hands on one of the boxes. His fingers glide over my hips, then down across my buttocks, sliding and stroking, tracing the shape of me through the fabric. His touch is so gentle it makes me ache. One hand stays there, still reading the curves of my butt cheek. The other moves away and I sense the rhythm of it, the slow stroke of his fist. His breathing changes, uneven now, ragged and full of need. I glance back and he's watching me while he does it. It should feel voyeuristic but it doesn't; it's intimate, he's trusting me to see something raw.

"Oh God," he murmurs under his breath, "Alice, oh God, oh God."

His voice cracks as his head tilts toward the ceiling. The motion of his hand speeds up, falters, speeds up again and I keep my eyes fixed on him. His head suddenly snaps down and as he meets my gaze his whole body shudders, mouth open in a strangled moan as he spills onto the floor beside us. He braces himself against my back for a second, then leans on the shelf, chest heaving. Reaching up to a box nearby he draws out a cloth to wipe himself down and I twist my body, turning to face him. He looks back at me like he's seen something holy.

"You're..." he starts, and shakes his head. "You're amazing."

He reaches out a hand and I take it, pulling myself upright. His fingers brush a strand of hair from my face as he kisses me on the cheek, tender and reverent.

"I don't even know your name," I say and I don't mean it sharply, it's just true.

"Josh," he says. "I should probably get back." He hesitates. "I hope I'll see you again?" He asks.

I feel heat rise in my cheeks as I nod. "I'd like that."

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