“Jeff, you’re bleeding.”
His eyes finally focus on me, then his gaze shifts down to his fingers. The nailbeds are bleeding. Blood isn’t oozing out, but there’s blood on his fingertips.
Bryan Adams was right all along.
There was a carpark at the back of the venue.
There was a carpark at the back of the venue. Weeds sprouted through its potholed tarmac, and large, smelly bins lined the backwall. One of them was for glass recycling, and the ground near it was littered with bits of broken glass. I could hear them crunching underfoot, and it was surrounded by a distinct smell of old alcohol that mixed in with a faint stink of piss. It was definitely away from prying eyes, but it wasn’t the most ideal setting for a romantic encounter.
“I want you for much longer than that."
He buried his face in my neck, his nose cold in the winter air as his mouth played with the skin just underneath my collar. His breath was deliciously warm and tickly.
“You know I’m tempted. I want to stay with you, but I don’t want you to think you’re just some random one-night stand in a hotel in Leeds.”
His fingers played with my hair, still a little longer back then, as he spoke, his eyes taking in every square millimetre of my face.
I knew it without him having to say it. He was stating the obvious. I knew I was more than that to him. I didn’t want him only for the night either.
“I want you for much longer than that,” he said, which was pretty much exactly what I’d had on my mind. I just wasn’t as good with my words, particularly when his touch made my whole body want to twirl like my hair did in his hands.