The Hot Floor

Dedication

Huge thanks to my critique partners JL Merrow and Lou Harper for giving me great feedback on my early drafts, and for not telling me this book was too smutty! Well, okay, Jamie did try to, but I blocked my ears and started singing. Also thanks to my wonderful beta readers Jennifer, Pender and Susan, and special thanks to Shelagh, who made sure Evan didn’t sound like a soft Southern git. Thanks to my lovely editor Linda who never tries to stifle my British voice. And finally, thanks to my good friend Ian, who spent a long afternoon sweating away to demonstrate glassblowing techniques for me, and who answered all my annoying questions with good humour. Ian, you rock!

Chapter One

“Oh my God, they’re at it again. They’re like bloody clockwork. I could set my watch by them.” Denise scowled at the ceiling of her living room, and I did my best to look uninterested in the sounds that were pounding down through the bedsprings, floorboards and plaster.

The sounds of two horny men humping each other senseless.

“We could swap flats, if you like. You can hardly hear them from the top floor.” Even if you lay with your ear pressed to the floorboards. Believe me, I’d tried. Why else would I choose that precise time to head down for a drink at Denise’s every evening?

“Nice try, sunshine. I’d rather listen to Rai squealing like a stuck pig than try and squeeze all my stuff into your sorry excuse for a flat. C’mon, shift over. It’s sandal season, and I want you to paint my toenails for me.”

“Sandal season? It’s only May.” Although I had to admit it had been unseasonably sunny and mild for the last couple of days.

“Yeah, but they’re forecasting a heat wave this summer.”

“They always do, but it never lasts longer than a week.”

“They reckon it will this time, though. Saw it on the BBC, and they don’t lie about stuff like that, do they? All hail global warming.”

I shook my head and stared down at her feet. “Can you really walk with all that crap on your toes?” There was a ring on every single one, the silver and semiprecious stones glowing bright against Denise’s ebony skin. “It’d drive me mad.”

“That’s coz you’re a namby-pamby boy. Women are used to suffering in order to look good. Besides, I have to model the stock, don’t I?” She began plucking the rings off and dumping them in the glass bowl I’d made her for Christmas. It was supposed to be a decorative piece, meant to be kept empty so you could see the swirls of colour in the glass. Still, I should probably be glad it hadn’t been press-ganged into ashtray duty like most empty receptacles in Denise’s flat.

“Here, I want them red,” Denise said, handing me a small bottle of shimmery scarlet polish. “And make sure you don’t get any on my cuticles, or else.”

“Christ. What did your last slave die of?” I was starting to regret telling Denise about the time I’d secretly painted my toenails with my mum’s purple nail varnish as a teenager, obsessed with the iridescent grape colour. Still, if there was one thing guaranteed to stop me sprouting a boner at all the bumping and grunting going on upstairs, it was having Denise’s size nines on my lap.

“Why are all the good-looking men gay?” Denise mused once she’d settled next to me, twirling one of her braids around her fingers. “It’s so unfair.”

“You said last week all the good-looking men were married with kids.”

“They’re either gay or married, anyway. Why can’t I meet an attractive single straight guy for once? I’m desperate for a good shag.”

I shook the bottle of polish in rhythm with the squeaking bedsprings. “Considering you work in a jeweller’s, I’m not surprised you don’t meet any single men at work. You probably need to stop spending every night out with your gay friends at gay bars. Not many straight men there, and you’ll get yourself a reputation as a fag hag.” I’d managed to avoid a swipe for the fag hag remark by holding out the open bottle of nail polish like a shield.

Denise folded her arms and glared at me instead. “Watch it, Josh. You’re cruising for a bruising.”

And there was Denise’s problem in a nutshell. The fact she was over six feet tall and built like an Amazon warrior wasn’t the issue; neither was the fact she only hung out with gay men. It was the prickly attitude that drove them away whenever a brave man ventured near. I saw the sweet side…occasionally. She’d put me up for a month after things went pear-shaped with Kenny, and I’d spent many an evening crying on her ample shoulder. Her softer side was a well-kept secret, though.

“You should try being a bit sweeter. More girly. Straight guys like that in a woman.”

Denise snorted. “Right. Like you’d know. Don’t know why I’m asking you anyway. It’s not like you’ve scored since Kenny dumped your sorry arse.”

“I bloody well have!” And I wished she wouldn’t keep bringing up that bastard. Five months later and my heart was still bruised and battered. Not to mention my pride. Having him tell me I was a boring shag had made me want to curl up and die of shame.

Having him then immediately shack up with a man-mountain of a biker who could have flattened me with a flick of his fingers, well, that was like rubbing lemon juice into a paper cut on my knob.

“Sorry, mate.” Her face softened, and she squeezed my arm, then grinned mischievously. “We’re not counting Dylan, though. Everyone’s had Dylan. Even
I’ve
had Dylan.”

“Snogging at New Year’s doesn’t count, Den.”

“It was more than that! He fingered me too. I’m telling you, that boy’s bi. I could have had him properly if I hadn’t had to go chuck up all that champagne.”

I shuddered at the mental image of the petite bartender getting it on with Denise. She’d eat him alive.

A wail rang out from the room above us. I could just make out the words, “Harder, harder!”

“That Rai is such a pushy bottom,” Denise muttered, lighting a cigarette as I painted the luscious red over her big toenail.

“How d’you know he’s the bottom?” I asked, more to bait Denise than out of disagreement. “That could be Evan screaming.”

“Not likely. He’s the one grunting. Listen, you can practically hear his accent.” She thumbed the remote to mute Macy Gray, and we both listened to the sounds coming from above.

Sweet Jesus, I’d be jerking off to memories of it later. They were going at it so hard the bed frame was slamming into the wall. The high-pitched sounds of Rai lost in pleasure went straight to my balls, as did Evan’s low growling. Denise was right; I could almost hear that northern accent of his, all studly and salt-of-the-earth. Still didn’t necessarily mean he was topping, but he had the gruffness and sturdy physique of a muscle bear, so I couldn’t help mentally putting him in that role.

I certainly wouldn’t mind being topped by him, anyway. Or Rai. Or topping either of them. Or both. Oh shit. I was getting wood.

“Josh!” Denise dug her foot into my stiffie. “I can’t believe you’re getting horny while painting my nails.” She fluttered her cobalt-blue eyelashes at me. “Starting to think I might have a go at turning you, you know.”

“In your dreams, love.” I pushed her finished left foot out the way and cupped my erection. We’d been best mates since college, so I could do that kind of thing around her without getting embarrassed. “This is all for the boys upstairs.”

“Really? You seriously fancy them?” Denise sounded incredulous.

“What? You don’t think they’re hot?”

She screwed up her nose. “Nah. They’re nice guys an’ all, but Evan’s a scruffy slaphead and Rai’s a short-arse speccy nerd. I’m after a man with a bit more style.”

“I happen to like Rai’s glasses! And Evan does have style. He’s like a Leatherman, but without the leather.” I wasn’t going to argue about the slaphead and shortarse comments, although I happened to like shaved heads and didn’t see why anyone should hold Rai’s height—or lack of it—against him.

Denise raised her eyebrows. “Oh, boy, you really do need a proper shag, don’t you? You should let them know you’re interested. Try your luck. They’ve had threesomes before.”

“Like you’d know,” I scoffed in an effort to cover up the raging lust her idle suggestion had fired.

“Of course I do. They haven’t done it since you’ve moved in, but they used to now and again. Ran into a guy ringing their bell as I was leaving once, and when I got back from the pub later, I could hear them all at it.”

“Jesus.” I’d never had a three-way. Dreamt about it, sure. Wanked my way through many a fantasy, but taking that extra step towards making it happen? Nope, never dared do that. I’d rather die than risk suggesting it with any of the couples I knew. Maybe Kenny was right and I really was hopelessly vanilla. “Anyone we know?” I couldn’t help but ask. “Dylan?”

“I don’t think so. I’ve never heard any gossip, and it’s not like Dylan would keep quiet about something like that. I reckon they must find them online or something. You know, on Gaydar or something.”

“They wouldn’t be interested in me, then.” Not with all the competition online. Believe me, I’d browsed through there on many a lonely night, trying to pluck up the courage to message someone.

“Why not? You’re cute. You’ve got that whole boy-next-door thing going on. I’d do you in a flash.”

“Seeing as how you’ve just admitted to being desperate for a shag, I’m not taking that as a compliment.” Boy next door indeed. Was that a euphemism for plain and forgettable? She probably had a point. With my unruly dark-blond curls, scruffy stubble and lanky, overgrown body, I supposed I looked nice enough, but I knew I was nothing to write home about. Perhaps a single sentence on a postcard, just to fill up the space if you were having a really dull holiday.

I finished up Denise’s right foot to the soundtrack of Rai and Evan getting their rocks off. God, Evan had stamina. Sounded like he’d reduced Rai to a begging, whimpering mess by the time they’d finished. I decided I was insanely jealous of Rai. But then I remembered that slinky way he moved and his radiant smile, and figured I was jealous of Evan instead. Yeah, I had it bad, crushing on the two of them.

“Not too shabby,” Denise said, and for a moment, I thought she was referring to the noise from upstairs. I’d certainly be willing to applaud them for that last climb up to the point of no return. But then Denise wriggled her toes and smiled. “Thanks, love. Consider yourself my new beautician.”

“Great. Just what I’ve always wanted to be. I’ll give up the glassblowing now and install myself as your personal slave, shall I?”

“That’s right, girlfriend. Now fix us a drink while these babies dry.”

“A
please
wouldn’t hurt,” I grumbled as I left the room, but I wasn’t seriously pissed off. It was just Denise’s way. Besides, she was always generous with her freezer full of Stoli and Bombay Sapphire, which was a damn sight better than what I could usually afford.

I made us both G&Ts—heavy on the G like we both liked it—and stood admiring the view from Denise’s kitchen for a few minutes. She was a lucky bitch. Not only did she have the entire first floor of the Georgian building to herself, but it was the best one, with the high ceilings and big windows too. And then the view out over the river Avon couldn’t be beat. Okay, there were probably flats in the centre of town that had more touristy views of the Abbey and so on, but here on Walcot Terrace, we had the river Avon winding along at the bottom of the gardens.

All I had in my top-floor studio was a sloping ceiling I kept banging my head on, a grimy window looking out on the equally dismal London Road traffic lights, and an antiquated bathroom with an alarmingly listing floor. What’s more, the bathroom could only be reached via the communal landing, which was a bit of a bugger if you needed to nip across there when Vern, the stoner in the other studio, was snogging one of his many girlfriends outside his door. It happened more often than you’d think. Someone on our floor clearly wasn’t having any problems scoring.

“What you staring at?” Denise asked, leaning over my shoulder. Guess I’d been gone long enough for her toenails to harden. “Oh, perving on poor old Cliff now, are you? I wouldn’t have thought he was your type.”

“He’s not. Too straight.” Eventually, I located a topless Cliff wrestling with a bush in his garden. He was another lucky bastard, as his basement flat came complete with a long-neglected riverside garden. “God, he’s pale.”

“Yeah, he’s going to burn if he’s not careful.” It might be evening, but the sun still hit the far end of Cliff’s garden, and he glowed like a white-hot gather of glass in the furnace.