The three of us were drunk.
Not falling down drunk, or even peeing in the street drunk, but drunk enough that the streets of Soho felt like a playground. The tourists had all gone to bed, the locals were hiding in bars or home in front of the TV, and we swayed on the cobblestone, hand in hand (in hand), as we wandered back from a long and delicious dinner.
It was, however, only when Cairn took out his camera and started snapping pictures that things got interesting.
Kitty and I were just a few steps ahead of him, but he called out and caught us in mid-turn with a click and a flutter. When Kitty kissed me, he kept on going, a laugh always on his lip, and when I pushed her against a wall, he scouted our surroundings.
“You two are so hot,” he said, stepping in and catching our kiss in the moonlight. “Don’t stop; I want to remember this.”
Kitty pulled him in for a kiss too, and for a while, the three of us stood in a doorway on Greene Street, making out like drunken fools.
“How worried are you about getting caught?” she asked, one hand on my growing bulge.
“More turned on than worried,” I said, pulling her to me. When I reached a hand under her dress, Cairn took another photo, and within minutes, our drunken meander had turned into something else.
When Kitty knelt on the cobblestone, I surveyed the streets for signs of pedestrians. The man in the coat, stumbling by in the dark, didn’t count. Neither did the two giggling girls who blew kisses.