54 Armand Gets Carried Away

August 15th - Six hours after the convention and one day until the end of the world

"You don't really believe that!" I laughed, unlocking the front door and stepping aside so Lucas could slide past me, still spewing his ridiculous notions.

"All I'm saying is Craig Charles is aging like a fine wine." Lucas put his camera down on the coffee table and tossed his bag onto the couch. "And Chris Barrie is aging like a tomato, you know?" He further loosened his tie, a gesture which I should not have found a tenth as distracting as I did.

I closed the door behind me and leaned against it, grinning at him past the hair in my face, then pushed as much of it as I could behind my ears. "A cute tomato. And I think we can both agree that Danny John-Jules isn't aging at all."

Lucas paused, one hand still holding his tie off to the side, and let a languid, sultry smile find its way to his lips. "You are not wrong." He finished pulling the tie off and draped it over the back of a chair. His collar fell open slightly, and I watched his Adam's apple bob, then felt mine rise and fall in answer.

Before I'd got a handle on myself, I'd moved away from the door and taken a few steps toward him—luckily, I caught myself in time, half a meter of safety between us. I wished for at least the twelfth time tonight that I could fit my hands into the pockets of my abominably tight trousers.

More than anything, I wished I wasn't quite so sober right now.

Lucas was still giving me a playful smile, and his eyes traveled from mine to the rest of my face. Then the rest of me—shoulders down to knees and back upward.

The heat didn't keep to my face.

I swallowed hard, almost painful in a dry throat, and took one step closer.

His smile widened, and then he bit his lip, lowering his eyes. A hand reached up to rest gently on my biceps. I kept my hands resolutely at my sides, until he took one of them in his.

I just hoped he didn't mind the sweat and slight trembling.

"I ..." My mouth was talking again without my permission. "I'm really ..."

"Yeah?" He leaned in, looking up and trying to catch my eye.

"I'm really, really glad we finally met," I managed, in a low whisper that was a bit too guttural for my own comfort. "Really glad."

"So you're glad, then?" Lucas's mouth worked for a moment, like he was keeping down a laugh or a grin. "Me too." His hand moved up from my shoulder to trace my jaw, his finger rustling softly against the bristles that had already started to appear there. "Really, really glad."

"Hehhneh ..."

Lucas's eyes were centered on my lips, and I bit down yet another rather embarrassing moan trying to claw its way up my throat. I shut my eyes and moved in, stopping when I could feel his breath on my lips, and waited.

But not for long.

Lucas's lips met mine, and within a millisecond I had an arm around his waist and he had a hand in my hair and the turtleneck had never seemed like a worse idea.

I slipped one of my knees between his and pressed as close as I dared. His fingers clenched in the hair above my ear while my hand fisted in the back of his shirt. My other hand slipped around the front and began untucking his shirt both as quickly and as gently as I could, starting for the buttons.

Lucas broke the kiss and buried his face in the corner of my throat, hands dropping from my hair and chest. They rested on mine, quelling their search for entry into his shirt.

I wanted to die. "I'm sorry!" I wheezed. "I got carried away. You just said— We just agreed—"

"Shh ..." Lucas whispered into my neck, and I tried to suppress the shiver. "I got carried away too."

"Unn-hnn." God help me it was a whimper, but Lucas had the kindness not to notice, and stepped away from me slowly, hands lingering on mine.

"I'm not trying to torture you, I swear." He chuckled. "Or myself. I just ... don't want to mess this up."

I swallowed and nodded. "That's, yes. Me too. Thank you." I wanted to die.

He smiled up at me, eyelids drooping down and lips still glistening, cheeks flushed. He raised my fingers slowly to his mouth and kissed them so softly I nearly moaned. He kept my fingers against his lips. "I'd better see you in the morning."

"You will. G'night." I groaned, then watched him make his way to his bedroom and listened for the click of the door shutting.

Then I spent a few minutes actively not slamming my head into the wall as hard as I could.

I paced the living room, hands gripping my hair, then grabbed my bag where it hung by the door and fled the flat, taking huge lungfuls of the cool evening air before lighting a cigarette and leaning against the wall of the building.

Bloody hell, that man was going to kill me.

And I was going to love every second of it.

I stared down at my hands, feeling the urge to draw, since other forms of expression were not readily available. I needed to do something to make up for that disgusting display upstairs. It couldn't be that hard to prove I was more than a pair of hands and a bucket of hormones.

And just like that, I had an idea.