“Yeah. I like to be left alone when I feel one of these fuckers coming on. I hope I’ll be okay. I’ll skull as many painkillers as my stomach can take and hopefully sleep the worst of it off. You need any more coffee? I’m gonna make a fresh lot, so…?”
“Nah, I’ve had three mugs already.” He reached into his pocket, withdrew a pair of shades and slipped them on.
I told myself it was my need for a drink, some painkillers and a lie-down which made my heart skip but constructing a wall of denial was as futile as fighting the damn pinching at my neck, the throbbing behind one eye. Oh, sure, I could hit them with medication and lessen their effects. Maybe. If I was lucky. But the combined pain would only dissipate completely in its own sweet time. Likewise, this thing, this crush on Steven—and, God, how I hated that juvenile way of describing the fact I just wanted his cock in me again—would only fade when it had had its fill of eating away at me day and night.
Complaining about being so hung over he felt as if even his teeth were on fire, he was still shit hot. Oh, he couldn’t have been in that much pain or he wouldn’t have even managed to pull himself out of bed, but for someone who thought he looked ‘dog-rough’, he sure had my attention. Even a little ragged around the edges. Hell, that only enhanced his appeal to me. The messy black curls, still damp from the shower he’d earlier whinged about, invited my touch.
“I better get off,” he said.
“I know the feeling.”
He caught my eye—or at least, I thought he did, from behind those shades—and rose, steadily enough for a man who felt as awful as he claimed to. “Never, ever take me drinking on a work night again, Blackman.”
“Hey.” I raised my palms in feigned innocence. “You could have said no.”
“Are you suggesting I wanted it all along?” The slow-emerging grin lit up his face like the rising sun and my God, he might have claimed to look and feel dog-rough but I didn’t think he’d ever looked better than he did at that moment.
A man who’d fucked me, and who was still willing to flirt. Oh boy, it would be so easy to get caught up in something that would eventually hurt.
“Like I said before, I doubt it would be possible to make Steven Kenton do something he didn’t want to do.”
“You better believe it. Well, look after yourself. Some of us have to work today—”
“Hey, I will too no doubt; it’s just that—”
“You have the advantage of being able to work from home.”
“Which also means I get Bill calling up every-bloody-when, asking me to take care of one meaningless task or another just because I have a laptop and I take my work home with me.”
“If he calls you back today, just ignore it.”
“Yeah, think I will. Sure you won’t have another coffee?”
“Nah. I’m gonna head off. Look after yourself, yeah?” he said again, and I murmured something in reply, allowing my gaze to follow him out of the room, but the throbbing in my cock would have to wait. It was being overpowered by the throbbing in my head.
Steven pulled the door shut behind him, not slamming it like he usually did, and the gratitude at his thoughtfulness made me laugh. Of course he wouldn’t slam the door, but it wasn’t out of concern for me. The poor guy was hung over.
Caffeine. I needed caffeine and painkillers. And bed.
But first, a call to Bill to break the bad news that he’d be a man down today, the prospect of which made me feel almost as nauseated as the migraine did itself. I always felt like such a fake when I pulled a sickie, but what else could I have done? A day in bed spent trying not to die, first of all, then trying to work.
The combination should, in theory, keep my mind off Steven. And my dick out of my right hand.
Chapter Eight
As predicted, Bill had grumbled a bit when I’d phoned in, but accepted it in the end. He knew deep down how much work I did at home, and my health complaint was genuine.
He hadn’t liked it, though.
I left my phone switched on, on my bedside table, just in case of emergencies. If the landline rang I’d leave it to go onto voicemail and if the caller was that keen to get in touch with me, they could send a text, or ring my mobile. If they dared. Bill, for instance, knew better than to call me when I had a migraine. If he kept me from sleeping off the effects of either pain and sickness, or the wonder-drug Imigran, my recovery would be delayed and he’d have to cope without me in the office. So I’d told him.
And so I had peace and quiet to recuperate.
While I waited for the medication to kick in and for the throbbing all over my skull to wear off, there was nothing to do but lie there and think of Steven.
A welcome distraction from the curse Mother Nature had very kindly laid upon me, and—I reasoned with a subdued laugh—it might have worked out to my benefit, medically speaking. If the migraine was related to problems with my blood pressure behind one eye, the fact thinking about being assfucked by Steven the night before made my dick hard meant the blood flow was diverted somewhere south of my boxers’ waistband.
Sometimes I experienced visual disturbances or olfactory hallucinations—smelling burnt toast when there was none in the kitchen, for instance. But hearing things? That I’d never experienced.
So when I thought I heard the front door click, my heart skipped and I lifted my head off the pillow, suddenly alert.
Though my thought processes were made sluggish by pain and the medication that—
thank God—was doing its
