Page 96 of In at the Deep End

Owen cried out as he shot his load up Matt’s back, shuddering. He clung to Matt, holding onto him until he’d emptied himself, his legs trembling. Then he wiped every all traces, letting the water carry the evidence down the drain.

When he was done, Matt turned in his arms, grinning.

“So, does this normally happen when you take a shower?”

Owen snorted. “Believe it or not, my normal routine usually only involves soap.”

“In which case, I probably owe you an apology.”

He arched his eyebrows. “For what?”

Matt’s lips twitched. “Hijacking your routine. Though, to be fair, you did start it.”

Owen gaped at him. “I did? And how exactly did I manage that?”

Matt gave an innocent shrug. “You got in the shower.”

“To get clean,” Owen remonstrated.

Matt’s grin was back. “Maybe I should let you finish what you originally came in here to do while I go and make the coffee.” His eyes sparkled. “My work here is done.”

Before Owen could answer, Matt stepped out of the shower and reached for a towel.

Owen blinked.

“Hey! That was my towel!” He couldn’t stop grinning, however.

His day was off to the perfect start.

Matt couldn’t have put together a more perfect itinerary for a day in London if he’d tried.

The fact that Owen had come up with all of it still made him smile. He’d expected touristy activities, sightseeing, the usual things people did when they visited London.

Owen had blown him away.

Their first stop of the day had been Cecil Court, a tiny Victorian street between Charing Cross and Covent Garden, full of antiquarian bookshops, old prints, film memorabilia, and theatre history.

Matt could have spent hours there, and it tickled him when Owen teased him about disappearing into another century.

Their next port of call had been The British Film Institute on the South Bank. Matt had been in heaven browsing the bookshop, looking at posters from classic films, exploring exhibitions, and soaking up the atmosphere. It wasn’t his first visit, or even his second, but the fact that Owen had even thought about it added a fresh delight to the proceedings. Now and then he’d glanced at Owen to find him smiling at Matt’s obvious enthusiasm.

The walk along the river afterwards had been pleasant too, not to mention lunch in the sunshine.

Their day had culminated in a visit to the Photographers’ Gallery in the West End, a mere twenty-five minutes’ walk from the hotel. Matt had wandered through several exhibitions, browsed in yet another bookshop, and generally lost himself. Owen hadn’t reacted beyond an affectionate smile.

As they headed back to the hotel for dinner and a cocktail before the show, Matt shook his head.

“It’s funny. I’ve spent all week scanning photographs because of the memories they hold.” He inclined his head in the direction they’d come from. “Those photos were trying to create memories for people they’ve never met.”

“You don’t just look at photographs, do you?” Owen smiled. “You read them.”

That felt like an accurate assessment, and Matt felt seen.

“So when are you going to tell me which show we’re going to?”

Owen chuckled. “When they scan our tickets.”

“At least give me a clue.”