Café au Lay: Pt. 02

I cycle to the café like I always do on Thursdays with the usual vague hope that I'll get one of the big tables by a socket point before the laptop crowd takes them all. I've felt sluggish all morning and the ride wakes me up a little, pulling my mind into my body. By the time I arrive I'm flushed and a bit too warm, legs humming and skin prickling with the remnants of effort.

I don't think of it as going there for him, not exactly, it's just part of my routine now, a familiar corner where I can work in peace. But still, as I lock up my bike and step through the door, I feel it, that quick little pulse in my stomach, a flicker of anxiety I can't fully name. Then I spot Josh at the counter and my heart leaps into my mouth.

He looks beautiful. Light brown hair falling across his forehead, that easy smile he's so generous with aimed at his co-worker; a young, edgy girl with long dark hair, a sleeve of tattoos, and piercings stacked up both ears. Something sharp twists in my chest as he laughs at something she says, is this jealousy? It's sudden, stupid and completely out of place. What the hell is wrong with me? We've had one brief encounter. Not even enough to call a one-night stand, that would imply more commitment than whatever happened between us. And yet, here I am, already feeling possessive. This is not a good sign. I consider backing out and leaving now, quietly, before he sees me. But then he looks up and our eyes meet. Too late.

As I step up to the counter, his eyes lock with mine and I smile before I can stop myself. He reaches up to swipe his fingers through his hair, looking a little bashful and my stomach flips, something humming in a way that is low, warm and stupidly satisfying. My memory snaps back to the storeroom, it's airless heat, our quiet urgency, the feel of his tongue on my skin and the pressure of his fingers curled around my hips.

"Hi," he says, smiling broadly as his eyes glitter.

"Hi," I reply, a little breathless.

"Coffee?"

"Oh... uh... yes coffee. Yes please."

"Table?" He questions.

"Oh... um," I glance over to see my favourite table is free and point, he nods and I tap my card on the till point to pay.

"We'll bring it over," he says brightly and I smile in return, waiting for something else. But he just stares down at the screen in front of him, refusing to meet my eyes.

I head to the table and pull out my laptop, feeling confused. What was that? Was that a brush off? Maybe he's embarrassed about last week? Or perhaps seeing me again he realises he made a mistake? A knot of shame twists in my gut. I sit down to work on the current app I've been developing, but find I can't really concentrate; my eyes keep flitting round the café, searching for Josh. He moves between tables and the counter, delivering drinks and food to customers with a focus that still feels loose. A sort of lazy competence, as if he's got everything under control in a way that borders on arrogance.

He brings my coffee over himself, setting it down with exaggerated care, then straightening up and saying, "here you are, ma'am," with a little wink that makes me snigger. I expect him to say more but he just turns and strides away back towards the counter, swiping an empty cup from a nearby table as he moves. I lift my cup, more perplexed than ever, and find a note folded neatly beneath the cup, resting just on the edge of the saucer.

Dinner? My place? and a phone number scrawled beneath in hurried, slightly chaotic handwriting.

I smile, a little giddy, and stare at the paper longer than I should. Eventually I pull out my phone and tap in his number.

Yes I message.

I look up and study Josh carefully. After delivering another drink to a customer he sidles over towards the front entrance, sneaking his phone from his pocket and flashing a side glance my way. He pockets his phone quickly, unnoticed by anyone else and mine rumbles on the table.

7pm? Tomorrow?

I smile as I message back.

I'll be there.

.....

His flat is on the third floor of a tired-looking terrace, paint peeling at the corners of the doorframe and an entry buzzer that crackles. When he opens the door he looks surprised and pleased, hair still damp from the shower, a tea towel slung over one shoulder.

"Hi Alice," he beams. "Come in," he adds, stepping back as his arm sweeps in an arc, guiding me down the hallway like a butler.

He's made an effort, that's obvious straight away. The table has been wiped down, candles are lit and the window is cracked to let out the stale air. There's still a faint trace of body odour and the living room-slash-dining area has the usual signs of a lads' flat. Controllers piled near the TV, an open box of cereal tucked behind a speaker and someone's manky sock sticking out from the corner of the sofa. He hesitates for a second, looking like he's about to apologise, but I interject before he gets a chance.

"It smells amazing in here," I lie, his shoulders ease and his face lights up,

We eat at the tiny table with mismatched chairs. I pick at the plate of pasta he places proudly in front of me; it's too soft, the sauce too salty and the cheap white wine burns my throat a little as it goes down. But none of it matters, his infectious energy washes over me as he talks in that intense way that young people do. He tells me about his flatmates and about taking the job at the coffee place after missing out on a music course at uni. I chime in now and then, but mostly he talks, and I listen. When I do speak he seems endlessly fascinated by everything I say, staring solemnly at me as I talk, trying not to miss a word.

"Are you married?" He suddenly asks out of nowhere and I nearly choke on my wine.

"No" I stutter, "divorced."

"Ah," he nods.

"What about you?" I ask with a smirk and he guffaws in reply. "Well, you never know," I clarify, as I laugh at my own joke.

"And, like what do you do? I mean I know something on a laptop right?"

"Hah, you mean work? I'm an app developer."

"Oh wow cool, like what kind of apps?"

"I work for Stapelton and Stapleford, you heard of them?" He shakes his head as he chews his food. "Well, we make custom apps for companies. At the moment I'm working on something for a big coffee machine brand."

"Oh yeah? To do what?" I brace for the usual polite nod and vacant stare, but he actually seems interested.

"It lets customers track their favourite flavour profiles, recommends new blends to try, and sends reminders when they're running low."

"Oh cool, sounds sweet. Wow... you are like really smart," his expression softens, eyes fixed on me with something close to wonder. He really is cute.

"What about you? What do you want to be when you grow up?" I grin.

He starts telling me about his dream, his voice picking up speed like he can't wait to get it out. A travelling vinyl shop in an old camper, shelves lined with records, speakers wired up to play whatever people choose. I tell him it could work, that people are always chasing that kind of kitsch nostalgia, and he smiles broadly in appreciation.

We stay seated at the table until my bum starts to go numb, the chairs really aren't very comfortable. I suggest we move and he slides onto the floor, chucking me a pillow to rest against. We sit, legs sprawled across the carpet, our backs against the sofa. He pours the last dregs of the wine into my glass.

"I've been thinking about you a lot" he admits as the last drip falls from the bottle and ripples across the surface of my drink. "You're arse mostly" he says, eyes locking with mine, a wicked little gleam shining behind them. I feel my cheeks getting hot and let the silence hang between us for a moment. But he doesn't back off, doesn't hesitate, his voice steady, low but clear.

"I've always had a thing for arses," he says, like he's talking about his favourite album. "Nice round ones like yours," he's relaxed now, shoulders loose, hands moving a little as he talks. I sip my drink nervously.

"Leggings really do it for me. I see some girl in gym gear" he shudders. "Your cycling stuff, shit" he sucks on his bottom lip. "It's the way it hugs everything, the shiny fabric. I love like lycra and latex. Touching you last week, Jesus fucking christ, it was so hot." He grins, not sheepish, proud. "I've got this thing... sometimes I'll just watch videos of women walking. Not porn, just walking wearing tight, shiny fabric." He reaches out to touch me, I'm wearing a silky figure hugging midi dress and he lets his fingers glide over the fabric.

"Well, it seems I came dressed appropriately then," I jest, but he holds my eyes confidently. I feel my skin prickle at his touch, caught between arousal and disbelief. Not at what he's saying exactly, but how easily it flows out of him. He doesn't see his kink as shameful in any way, it's just a part of him he wants to share with me and he wants me to really see how much he enjoys it.

"What do you like?"

I sit there frozen. I have no quick answer. No one has ever asked me anything like that before, or spoken to me so openly about their secret desires.

"I... I don't know," I say, trying to sound breezy and failing completely. "I mean... I like it from behind?" It comes out like a question, as if I'm asking him if that's an acceptable answer. I smooth my finger across the edge of my glass, suddenly fascinated by the condensation that's formed along the rim.

"I guess... I like feeling wanted? Properly. Not just the physical stuff, but like..." I trail off and cringe, my face screwing up involuntarily. "Sorry that sounds stupid. I don't really know how to talk about this stuff, my ex husband, he wasn't very... communicative."

I look up embarrassed but he doesn't laugh at me, he just watches my face curiously with that same calm, warm expression.

"Maybe we can figure it out together," he says, reaching out his hand to lift me from the floor and leading me back down the corridor.

His bedroom is calmer and tidier than the rest of the flat. Amber light from a small lamp spills across the bed, softening the edges of everything. The space is sparse, just a bed, chest of drawers and a shelving unit which stands in one corner, scattered with a few trinkets. I pause in the doorway but he pulls me forward, reaching back to close the door behind us.

His hands move over my body, slow and deliberate, fingers savouring the feel of the fabric clinging to my skin. He grips my hips and turns me to face the wall; the swiftness and confidence with which he moves me sends a thrill spinning through my body. That thrill intensifies as his palms slide down across my arse and he lets out a low groan under his breath.

"Oh Jesus, Alice, you feel incredible."

His hands continue, tracing slow circles over the curve of me and I sense a shift in his breathing, shallow now, uneven. His crotch presses into my butt cheeks, the bulge in his jeans firm as he grinds against me.

"Fuck... Alice... you've got me so fucking hard already."

He slides his hands under my dress and begins to lift it, revealing the skin beneath. I lean into the wall, arching slightly, pushing back into him; he exhales sharply and grinds against me again. The fabric rides higher, catching where it's clinging to the sweat low on my back. My skin tingles with anticipation and something like fear, but not the kind that makes you run. He doesn't speak as he pulls my knickers down, they slip over my thighs and drop to the floor. One hand moves between my legs, pressing into me. I'm already wet, already open and his fingers pulse against me like he's reading my every thought.

"Oh, Alice," he breathes, voice low and rough. I push into his hand, my own moan catching in my throat.

"I want you inside me," I tell him, barely able to form the words.

I hear the buckle of his belt click, the rustle of denim sliding down and his knees bend slightly as he guides himself into me, slow and careful. He lets out a long breath as he sinks in and I tilt my head back, exhaling something wordless, letting my legs part just a little more. His tongue brushes the side of my neck as he begins to move, almost too gently at first. I had expected him to take me hard after I'd riled him up like that; but instead he's steady, focused and controlled. It catches me off guard, this precision, the way he fills me so gradually. Unfolding inside me, layer by layer.

It doesn't take long, I'm already pulsing and trembling. When he finds the rhythm, using his fingers in slow circles, I let out a moan, loud and full. My legs begin to shake with the effort of holding myself upright, every muscle pulling tight. I let go of any doubts in my head, trusting my body to respond to him and he doesn't stop when I press back, reading it as encouragement. He stays with me, patient and firm, until I break with a jolt, gasping his name.

"Oh Josh... fuck... Josh."

He starts moving faster, his thrusts hitting deeper, sharper. The heat builds again, thick and rising through my belly. It spreads in waves, crashing over me, my whole body shaking as he holds me up. My orgasm hits hard and I cry out as it rolls through me. My legs nearly give way, hair falling erratically across my face, one hand braced against the wall to stop myself from collapsing. He pulls my dress up higher, letting the slippery fabric fall over his face. His breath catches as he inhales, the texture against his skin clearly driving him wild. He wraps his arm around me, pulling me close, holding me in place while we both try to catch our breath.

"Alice I really wanna go hard, can I?"

"Pound me into tomorrow," I command.

It's too much and not enough all at once. My breath rises without shape as my arms strain against the wall. I feel raw, immense and tiny all at once. He thrusts into me hard, deep, like he's been holding it back too long and can't anymore. My head knocks lightly against the wall, breath punched out of me with each movement and all I can do is hold on.

"Fuck," he growls, voice thick and ragged. "This dress." His face buries in my neck, then lower, nuzzling into the fabric where it's bunched between us.

He shifts his grip, pulling the fabric higher so it presses into my neck, kissing it like he can't decide whether he wants my skin or this silk.

"You're wrapped in everything I fantasise about," he confesses, fucking me harder, the rhythm brutal now, body slamming into mine with the weight of it, every thrust forcing a sound from my throat I don't even recognise. His hand fists the fabric at my side, crushing it.

"Alice, oh fuck. I'm gonna come."

I feel it in the way his rhythm starts to unravel, in the raw, guttural sound he makes as he drives into me one last time, his whole body shuddering against me and the fabric still crushed against his face. For a moment we just stay there, breathless and slumped against the wall, his arm folded around me protectively. I try to make sense of what I've just given him, and how, somehow, in the middle of all of this, I feel more honest than I have in years. I've never been with anyone who had a kink like his, never even imagined it and I'm startled to realise that giving him what he craves has given me something too, a deeper satisfaction than I've ever known.

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