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I kissed her under the umbrella.
It was the rain, I’ll claim. And the gin. And six years of barbecues. She kissed me back like she’d been waiting for permission, her hands fisted in my jacket, rain dripping off the umbrella onto both of us.
“Two streets,” she said, pulling back. “Run.”
We ran. Her flat was a fourth-floor walk-up in Ancoats full of books and plants and a framed poster of Casablanca. We didn’t turn the lights on. She pulled my wet jumper over my head and I peeled her jeans down her legs, and we fell onto her bed laughing and dripping.
There was no envelope. No rules. She went down on me with her curls tickling my thighs, then pulled me up and rolled a condom onto me and climbed on top. She rode me slowly at first, then fast, her hands braced on my chest, gasping my name. I came with her. Then, an hour later, I went down on her until she came twice and begged me to stop.
In the morning she made coffee in my jumper.
“Just so we’re clear,” she said, “this is not a booking.”
“Clear.”
“I don’t charge for this. I don’t think I ever will.”
“Good.”
She smiled over her mug. “Gemma’s going to kill us both.”
Ending 9 of 16: Two Streets Away. Go back and try a different choice for the full happy ending.