Chapter 17
. . .
Xavier
My eyes fly open, and for a second, I don’t know where I am. I’m in bed and the room is dark, the curtains drawn. What woke me up?
I realise Bernard isn’t on the bed when he whines and scratches at the door.
“Do you want to go out?” I ask. “Okay, baby. Hold on.”
I slide into my jeans and grab Reuben’s old Stone Island sweatshirt that I found last night while searching his wardrobe for more clothes. It swamps me, the sleeves falling over my hands, but it smells of him and feels like putting a superhero cape on. I’m invincible when I wear it.
I open the door and click quietly to Bernard, but to my surprise, he doesn’t head down the stairs. Instead, he pads over to Reuben’s bedroom door and sits down, looking back at me and giving a soft bark.
I narrow my eyes. “I really don’t think you can go in there,” I whisper.
“He’s already a bit salty about you sleeping on my bed rather than in that basket he bought you.
It’s taking the piss a bit if he wakes up and you’ve taken over his bed too.
” He tosses his head, and I click my fingers. “Come on. I’ll let you out.”
He stays stubbornly there, and I open my mouth to order him over, but then a soft sound comes from beyond Reuben’s door, and Bernard looks back at me as if vindicated.
“What’s that?” I whisper.
I creep close to the door, and the noise comes again.
The hair on the back of my neck rises at the chilling sound.
It’s tortured and full of agony and pain.
Without a second’s thought, I open the door and surge into the room with Bernard hot on my heels.
I hover for a moment, getting my bearings.
I haven’t been in here since the day I snooped through the entire house.
I haven’t felt it’s my place to treat the room as mine since, which is richly ironic since I’ve scampered all over his life with hobnailed boots for years.
The curtains are open, flooding the room with moonlight that makes the pale bed sheets glow.
Reuben’s naked, lying face down with his face burrowed in his pillow and the sheets tangled around his long legs.
His muscled back is wet with sweat, and even as I hover, watching him like a creepy pervert, he moves, his hand clenching. “No.”
I’m reaching for him before I know it. “Reuben,” I whisper, touching his shoulder gently. “Reuben.”
He shoves me. It’s forceful, aggressive, and completely unlike the man I know. I reel back and land with a thump on the carpet.
“Ouch,” I say plaintively, surprised not even beginning to describe how I feel as the puppy nudges me, curious as to how I’ve ended up on the floor with him.
There’s a startled silence, and then I hear a hoarse, “Xavi?”
The light clicks on, and his face appears over the side of the bed. He’s covered in sweat, and he looks at me in horror. “Shit,” he says explosively and jumps out of bed.
He crouches beside me, running hands over my face and shoulders. “Did I hurt you?” he says urgently.
I can’t help my shudder as his fingers graze my nipple ring. Don’t judge. It’s been a year since I last had sex.
Reuben interprets the shudder as pain, and he makes a soft, anguished noise. “I hurt you.”
I sit up, grabbing his hands and squeezing them. “I’m okay,” I say instantly. “Don’t fret. It was just a bump.”
He ignores that. “Did I shove you? Oh my god.”
Before he can put on his hairshirt, I say, deliberately making my voice wry and teasing, “I bet you’re absolutely shit at rough play.” I’m not sure how it lands, because I sort of want to cry. I hate to see him so upset.
He makes a startled sound, and then he gives a chuckle which is immediately followed by a watery sniff.
“No,” I say in horror. “Roo, no. I’m okay.
Look at me.” I grab him close, and I’m stunned when he folds like a deck of cards and settles into my arms, burrowing his face in my neck.
Hot moisture dampens my skin, and I grip him tightly, kissing his hair and his temples where the tears run.
“Shh,” I croon. We begin to rock gently, and I tighten my grip and lay my head on his.
“It’s okay,” I lie. “It’s all going to be okay. ”
We sit like this for what feels like ages. His breathing is rough and panicky, but my grip never slackens. Somehow, I know he needs it to come back himself.
Eventually, he stirs. “Shit,” he says. “Motherfucking shit.” Bernard leans in and licks his ear and Reuben reaches out a shaky hand to pet him. “Good boy. Thank you.”
He starts to extricate himself, and I let go of him reluctantly. “You okay?” I whisper.
He sits back, knuckling his eyes like a sad child. His hair is a wild mess spilling over his shoulders, looking like ink on his skin in the moonlight. His eyes are pools of darkness. “Sorry,” he finally mutters.
“Oh, fuck off.”
His head jerks up. “I beg your pardon?”
I’m relieved to hear a thread of amusement replacing the dead tone of a few seconds ago.
“I seem to remember that you plucked me naked out of a hotel bed while I was probably drooling and took me to the hospital. So, there is no room for embarrassment between us. There can never be any room for that. I know you, and you know me, and that’s fucking it. Okay?”
He stares at me for a few seconds, and then his face relaxes a little. “You actually were drooling. I’d completely forgotten about that.”
“I’m sure I was still incredibly beautiful.”
“Ah, I don’t remember that quite as well.”
“Twat.”
He laughs, and it’s rough and rusty sounding enough to hurt my heart. “Well, thank you.” He gets to his feet and holds out his hand to me. “Are you sure you’re okay? I hit hard on nights like this.”
Instead of answering that question, I ask, “Can you go back to sleep?”
“Ah.” He shrugs. “Probably not.”
I take his hand and jump to my feet. “Come along, then.”
“Where? Xavier?” he asks as I pull him to the door.
“You’re coming to bed with me.”
There’s a very long pause. “Why, Xavier, this is so sudden.”
“Stop being a knob. Better put some shorts on, though.” I wink at him. “I’m not that sort of boy.”
“You are exactly that sort of boy,” he says wryly, but slides into a pair of checked pyjama shorts. They hang from his narrow hips, showing off the tight muscles of his lower abdomen. Something hot clenches in my stomach, but I ignore it. He doesn’t need us to head down that road tonight.
“Come along.” I hold out my hand, and after a few beats, he puts his own in mine. There’s something so trusting about it, and I squeeze his fingers. “Please don’t argue. I have the best ideas, and you should have learned by now to go along with them.”
“I have very much refused to learn that lesson because that way lies catastrophe and disaster.”
I wink at him. “But it’s always sexy catastrophe and disaster.”
He lets me lead him to the bedroom with Bernard following us. I pause at the bed. “Do you want a shower?”
He immediately shakes his head. “If you don’t mind a sweaty man, I’d rather not.”
“I never mind a sweaty you,” I say solemnly. “After all, it’s led to some quite life-changing situations for me.” His mouth twitches, and I raise the duvet, gesturing him briskly into the bed. “Well, get in.”
“It’s rather like being in the army.”
“Wow. His majesty’s forces sound much more fun when you talk about them like that. Maybe a career in the military is the thing for me.”
“I think they’ve suffered enough with budget cuts to inflict you on them as well.
” He slides into bed with a weary sound.
“God, these sheets smell of you,” he says in a throaty voice.
My dick twitches, but I will it down. Now is not the time.
He yawns. “Is it really alright?” he asks in a voice worn thin with tiredness and the dregs of his dream.
“Of course. I never issue invitations I don’t mean.” I slide in next to him. “Do you think you can sleep with me beside you?”
He looks at me solemnly, blinking sleepily like an owl. “Maybe.” He hesitates. “Is it alright if I big spoon?” he asks awkwardly. “I don’t like to be held—it’s too containing, but I love skin to skin.”
I wonder how many men he’s said that to, but I ignore the twinge of pain because I have no right to feel it. Instead, I roll onto my side. “Spoon away.”
He edges up close, and I can’t help my soft sigh as his strong arms encircle me.
Warmth instantly floods through me like I have brandy in my veins.
It’s been a year since I last felt his long, hard body against mine, and it’s an almost painful relief—like life tingling back into cold limbs.
I squeeze his arm, and silence falls. Then he nestles his face into my neck and inhales deeply.
“Thank you,” he whispers. It’s unbearably intimate in the close confines of my bed.
“Do you want to talk about the dream?” He stiffens, and I immediately regret my question. I reach back and pat his hip. “Sorry. Don’t answer that.”
“It’s fine, Xavi. If I could talk to anyone, it would always be you.” There’s a simple truth in his voice.
“But not now?”
“Maybe not ever about this one. I just can’t. Some things you might eventually forgive me for. I don’t think this one will ever be one of those.”
His voice has roughened, and a chill shivers down my spine. I stroke his arm. I want desperately to know now, but I can’t force it. I’m presuming it’s about something that happened to him overseas. “That’s fine,” I say eventually. “I don’t own your mind or your secrets.”
“I can’t tell you this one,” he insists.
“Then don’t tell me,” I say simply. I take a deep breath. “Just know that the only thing I’d never have forgiven you for was if you had died while working and never came home.”
His arm twitches but he says nothing.
I wonder what could be so bad he couldn’t tell me, but I can’t force it. So instead, I stroke his arm slowly and hum as I do.
His body goes still. “Is that …is that 50 Cent?” he asks, his voice lightening.