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He was in the mood to not talk with anyone and, as sometimes happened, felt perversely like surrounding himself with people to not-talk to.
Damn, that wind has got a bite to it, doesn’t it?” “I can warm you up,” said Edwin. Robin stared at him. Edwin felt his face fill with mortified colour. His voice cracked as he said, “I meant—I can do a drying spell.” “Oh,” said Robin, with a hint of crack himself.
Edwin was wearing a waistcoat in a dull shade of grey, and did not look as though he’d slept well. Unfortunately, it suited him.
My type of man fr
Robin managed to hold his tongue on something truly unwise like You look like a Turner painting and I want to learn your textures with my fingertips. You are the most fascinating thing in this beautiful house. I’d like to introduce my fists to whoever taught you to stop talking about the things that interest you.
It wasn’t a broken heart. It was more like broken glass: a bottle, smashed, letting everything flow out from where it had been long corked and fermenting.
I am nothing like you, and yet I feel more myself with you.
“I don’t want to intrude.” “You’re not. You can’t. It’s extremely irritating.” Edwin stepped close, very close indeed. “What’s irritating?” Edwin said, “Every time you touch me it’s exactly what I want.”
Apparently Robin recognised lies even when he was telling them to himself. Because it wasn’t the physical act alone. It was the way he felt watching Edwin read; it was the feeling he had every time his eyes sought Edwin in a room and landed on any angle of the man’s face, any movement of those delicate fingers: There you are. I’ve been waiting for you.
