Hopelessly Bromantic (Hopelessly Bromantic Duet 1)

4

A Great Dick with A Great Dick

Jude

I’ve had dates that started worse.

There was the guy who turned out to be my second cousin, though we thankfully learned of our interconnected family tree branches before we smacked lips. Then, there was another guy who informed me the second I sat down at the table that he liked to take cold baths before sex.

Give a bloke some food before you reveal your fetishes. I mean, that’s just polite.

But let’s not forget the man who cried the instant I arrived at the café. I don’t even know why. He just blubbered for thirty minutes till I called him an Uber and sent him home.

With that precedent, a night out with a hot, but exhausted American likely won’t crack the top-three worst dates. But when I catch sight of TJ through the window of The Magpie, yawning wide enough to fit a double-decker bus, I suspect the evening won’t end the way I imagined—with mutual finishing.

Well, there are other uses for mouths.

I go into the packed bar and head straight for his booth, where he’s reading the book he bought. “Usually, it takes a few beers before I bore my dates, so I’m ahead on that count,” I say.

“Sorry about that,” TJ says with a tired laugh as he sets the Wilde aside. “But I assure you, boredom is not the issue.”

“It’s past your bedtime?” I suspect that’s why he’s zonked.

A sheepish look flits across his tired eyes. “That obvious?”

“Yes, but you said it was your first day in London.” I slide onto the dark wood bench across from him. On the wall above us hangs a vintage poster of London from a century ago.

“Who’s the detective now?” TJ counters.

“It’s a useful skill,” I say drily, tapping my temple. “Remembering, that is.”

“Sure is. And hey, if it helps, I haven’t slept in more than twenty-four hours. But thanks for the heads-up that you’re dull.” TJ points to the door. “I’ll just make my great escape right now.”

“I don’t think you’re going to slip away just yet.”

His eyebrows dart up. “And why is that, Just Jude?”

“Oh, I have a nickname already?”

“You made it easy.”

I’d like to make a lot of things easy for him. Like, say, having me when he’s not knackered. “And you’ve made it hard for me to figure out your real name.”

“But you like it that way. Hard,” he says.

I shrug coyly. “I do enjoy a hard man.”

He chuckles, then he holds up a finger for a pause. “One sec.” Grabbing his mobile, he quickly taps something out on the screen.

I peer over the table, intrigued. “Are you taking notes on our conversation?”

“It gave me an idea—what you just said.” He finishes typing and sets his phone down, a little amused with his own notes.

That ratchets up my curiosity. “And, are you going to keep that idea all to yourself, like your real name? Or will you share?”

TJ gives a sly smile. “Depends on what I do with it,” he answers in a tone that says Let’s leave it at that.

Fair enough. I don’t need to push him on his notetaking. People reveal things when they’re ready. But I want him to reveal something to me. I have a hunch about it, but I’ll have to get the answer out of him in a roundabout way. “Great table. Did you get here a while ago?”

“Yeah, I did,” he says, scratching his jaw like he’s playing at “laidback” too. “I mean, I didn’t know how long it would take to walk here from my hotel, or whether the GPS directions are right, or whether The Magpie would be crowded since it’s a Saturday night. So, I showed up a bit early.”

The way he overexplains is endearing, and confirms my hunch that he was as eager to impress me with a good table as I was eager to find him earlier. Call me a glutton for compliments, but I do like knowing when someone’s into me. I can blame my ex for that, I suppose.

“That’s why I didn’t think you’d slip away,” I say. “Who’d want to give up such a great table?”

“Not me,” he adds, as if he’s trying not to smile.

A waitress swings by and asks us our poison. I pick a lager, while TJ opts for an ale. When she leaves, I’m tempted to confess I doubled back to Angie’s to see him again. But if I admit I chased him to the thrift shop, he might put me in an Uber like I’ve blubbered to him.

I’d deserve it.

I play it cool instead, opting for a safer topic. “So, how are you finding London so far?”

He shrugs, all no big deal, but keeps those dark eyes on me. “It’s not so bad. I guess we’ll see if you can keep me up.”

“That’s a tall order. But I think I’m up to the task. I happen to be a scintillating conversationalist.”

“Then, Just Jude, you really should keep scintillating.” Something about the way he says that—all faux naughty—rips a laugh straight from my chest. He cracks up too. “All right. Tell me for real about your first day in my hometown. Besides meeting a fabulous Englishman who has the same tastes.”

“Thank God for that,” TJ says, relieved.

“Same here. It’s always a welcome moment when you know you’re not barking up the wrong tree,” I say.

“I prefer the right trees. And England is . . . pretty good so far. Even though the airline lost my bags, my room wasn’t ready, and I had nothing clean to wear until this afternoon. Also, apparently, I can’t stop yawning.” Another one racks him as the blonde server returns with our drinks.

“Here’s your lager and your ale,” she says, setting down the glasses. “Shall I start a tab for you?”

“Yes,” TJ says, just as I say, “No.”

She holds up her hands to show she’s not getting involved. “I’ll let you gentlemen sort that out.”

I hand her my credit card. “Here you go, love. We’re all set.”

“Thank you,” she says, then spins on her heel.

I turn back to TJ, who’s crossing his arms. Oh, no, no, no. He’s not getting it. “You think when you said yes, and I said no, that I meant I was taking off straight away?”

He scoffs in denial. “It’s all good. I’m happy to call it a night,” he says, so damn nonchalant.

“I’m not letting you get away that quickly.”

Like that, his cool demeanor cracks. A smile breaks through.

I get up, move to his side of the booth, and slide in next to him. When we’re thigh to thigh, his breath hitches, then it catches as I drape an arm around him.

“Are you trapping me?” he asks.

“Yes. Is it working?”

“Depends on what you want to do.”

“Keep you here for this drink.”

He’s quiet for a few seconds. “It’s working quite well.”

“Good. I’d hate to be presumptuous if it wasn’t working.”

He clears his throat. “You should be very presumptuous.”

“Then I’ll presume about other things too.” I curl my hand over that big, strong shoulder that feels so fucking good. I do like a man who’s bigger than I am, broader than I am. Who can climb over me and pin me down.

“What sort of things?” he asks, a little breathy.

Ah, fuck it. He’s probably only in town for a short while. Might as well enjoy this while it lasts. “Things like . . . tomorrow.”

That wins me the start of a smile, then the slight turn of his face toward me. “What are you presuming about tomorrow?”

“That I’ll see you again,” I tell him. “When you’re not falling asleep. When you’re not yawning into your fucking beer.”

With a laugh, he rolls his eyes then leans back in the booth. “I’m only a little tired,” he says, so much gravel in his voice now.

“That’s why I gave her my card. That’s why I said we were set. So we can have this one drink to your first night in town. And something more tomorrow.”

He nods a few times, clearly liking my plan. If he only knew all the dirty plans I have for him tomorrow. “I’ll drink to something more,” he says, and we lift glasses and clink.

“Cheers,” I say, then drink and lick my lips. “So, what brings you to London? Give me the two-minute version since I’m going to put you in an Uber soon.”

“I’m writing an exposé on bookshops,” he says, deadpan.

“So, this is all a ruse to get me to reveal the hidden secrets of the shelves?”

“Seems to be working too. I already uncovered critical details, like how much you adore helping customers and which edition of The Importance of Being Earnest is your favorite.”

I try to remember when I told him but draw a blank. “I didn’t tell you the one you bought was my favorite.”

“You didn’t have to tell me. I figured it out from your clues,” he says, and this man would make a good detective because he’s spot on.

“Perhaps all this Sherlock Holmes work of yours brought you to London then?”

He takes another drink and casually sets down the glass. “Or maybe I’m a Wilde scholar here in London to research the man.”

“But we’re all Wilde scholars, aren’t we?”

“Excellent point,” he says, then his tone shifts like he’s letting down his guard. “When I was in high school and first learned he was gay, I checked out all Oscar Wilde’s works from the library. Devoured them. I’ve read this one several times.” He taps the top hat cover. “Maybe I felt I should have an affinity. Do you know what I mean?”

“I do—on both counts. And probably that’s why I was the most excited I’ve ever been when I was cast as Jack Worthing in uni.” I pause to replay in my head what I just said. “I hope I didn’t sound like a braggart then. I was truly thrilled.”

“Not at all. I can completely understand that excitement.” This is our first stripped-down moment, free of flirting or trying to impress the other. It’s nice, and I like it, but I don’t want it to last too long. I don’t want too much closeness in my life, and I doubt TJ does either, judging by how quickly he returns to the banter.

“And is that your way of telling me you have a second career?” he asks. “That you’re an actor?”

“Yes. Clever, isn’t it? How I dropped that in?”

“Very much so. So, the bookstore thing, then?”

“I moonlight there. Bills and all,” I say, offhand. I don’t want to reveal the full extent of my acting dreams. Don’t want to let on that I spend my days auditioning for hoover adverts and bit parts on web shows and every single fringe theater production that might be right for me. That I’m chasing a wildly unlikely dream of making it big in film and on stage. He’d probably laugh. “And I’m guessing you’re a writer?”

A surprised laugh bursts from the man next to me. “It’s as obvious as me being tired?”

“Pretty obvious, TJ.” I don’t go into how I caught on. It’d be evident I’m paying too much attention to every detail of him—like how he sometimes takes his time with his words like he’s writing them out in his head first. Rather than say that, I tease, “Your whole look kind of screams writer.”

Okay, I can’t help it.

His jaw drops, and he gestures to himself. “Am I disheveled, unshowered, and dressed in sweats? No. Not to cast aspersions on other writers, mind you.”

I lean closer and whisper, “I won’t tell all the other writers in the world that you mock their wardrobes.”

“Thank you so very much. Anyway, you’re right. I am a writer—well, I’m a business reporter—and my news organization sent me here to cover the financial markets.”

“Ah, stocks, bonds, money, money, money,” I say.

“That’s the gist of my days,” TJ says, then takes a breath like he’s not quite sure if he wants to say the next thing. But then he goes for it. “I’ll be here for a year.”

I flinch in surprise. “That’s a long time.”

He laughs, but it’s defensive. “You’re rethinking that offer for tomorrow, aren’t you?”

Am I? Does the score change with him living here rather than being on holiday?

I’m not in the market for a relationship after the way my last one ended. But first dates aren’t the best time to lay down the rules of my solo road.

I keep my answer on the level—the physical level. “I’m thinking I’m still quite interested in seeing what’s underneath this writer’s garb.”

He laughs. “So, I do dress like a writer.”

“A little bit. But that isn’t stopping me from wanting to touch what’s under the Tetris T-shirt,” I say playfully, plucking at the fabric near his belly.

I’m so very tempted to check out his abs. But I don’t want to be handsy. I’ll just have to imagine what they’re like. Or maybe not, because TJ grabs my hand and places it on his stomach.

Oh, yes. They’re as firm as I imagined.

TJ gives a slight smirk. “Figured this was easier than you surreptitiously trying to check out my abs.”

“Was playing with your shirt what we’d call surreptitious?”

“Not in the motherfucking least,” he says.

This is my chance to turn the tables on him, to grab his palm, and set it on my stomach.

But he lifts his hand and takes another drink.

Maybe he wants to leave me wanting him more. And I do want TJ, even this tired version—make that dog-tired because there he goes again with another yawn.

“All right, stud. It’s well past your bedtime,” I tell him.

“It’s not even five in New York,” he protests.

“And yet, you look like you could sleep for days,” I say.

“I do like sleep, but I also like doing other things in bed,” he says, his voice husky and hopeful.

“Tomorrow, Troy Jett,” I say and ruffle his hair. I like touching him. A lot.

“Troy Jett? Please.”

“It was worth a shot.”

He arches a dubious brow. “Promise me something. Promise me you’ll never date a douche named Troy Jett.”

“That is a particularly dickish name,” I say.

He hums, tapping his chin. “Why is dick an insult?”

“That’s an excellent question, considering how much I love it,” I say, giving a little roll of the tongue with those last few words.

“That’s why it should be a compliment of the highest order,” TJ adds. “Instead of saying he’s a dick when someone is a jerk, we should save he’s a dick for a really awesome dude.”

“Like, if I met a rather handsome stud, I’d say I met a great dick today.” I take a beat to adopt a thoughtful expression. “At least, I think he’s a great dick,” I say, feigning worry. “What if he’s not?”

TJ sighs heavily. “That’d be such a shame if the guy you think is a dick turns out to be a not-dick. But I’ll let you in on a secret. I have a feeling this dude you met is definitely a dick. Like a big, huge dick. The biggest dick.”

I groan, half in the promise of pleasure, half in amusement. “But I won’t say I hope he has a big dick. Because, sure, size is nice and all. But great dicks come in all sizes. It’s not the length or the girth, but what a great dick can do with a great dick.”

TJ laughs, long and a little slaphappy. “You have a way with words too. And I will drink to your ode to all shapes and sizes,” he says, and we toast once more.

Soon, we take our last sips of beer, reaching the end of the date. But before I can say good night, TJ leans into me and brushes a kiss onto my cheek.

I freeze and moan at the same time.

I didn’t expect a kiss, and I definitely don’t want it to end. His lips are utterly delicious on my skin. I close my eyes and revel in the barely-there stroke of his soft lips down to my jaw, where he’s more insistent, a little rougher, that stubble scraping my chin in the best way.

I shudder out a breath. He lays a hand on my other cheek, holds me in place. “If you’re a good dick, I’ll give you a good night kiss,” he whispers, and I’m so damn glad I lost the Cleaneroo gig. If the casting director had asked for a callback on the spot, I’d have missed my chance to run into TJ outside a discount shop.

“I’ll be the best,” I say, and I’m tempted to turn into his lips. To get lost in one of those endless, dreamy kisses I suspect he can give.

But I’m acutely aware of the power of waiting.

I’ve never edged with kisses. I plan to tonight.

A few minutes later, we’re outside The Magpie. With the book in hand, he gestures in the direction of his hotel. “See you tomorrow sometime,” he says.

“Text me when you’re up, Sleeping Beauty,” I say, nibbling the edge of my mouth absently for a second.

TJ stares wantonly at me, then steps closer. He’s mere inches away. “You do this thing where you bite your lip, and it kind of drives me crazy.” He drags his thumb along the corner of my mouth then chases it with his lips, giving me one more kiss right there. A spark sprints through me from that barest touch.

TJ steps away, walks backward, lifts his free hand to wave. “Goodnight, Just Jude.”

“Welcome to London, Tobias Jangle.”

With a smile, TJ turns and strolls into the London evening. The whole way home, I think of great dicks. Because that was the best goodnight kiss I’ve ever had, and it was also the most innocent.