Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 56970 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 285(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56970 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 285(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
Gah. Enough.
I want something meaningful and long term, not another quickie atop swaths of flannel and viscose.
“What are you doing?”
Damon delivers a maniacal grin. “All that milk-hauling got me hot and bothered.”
“Stop right there.”
He laughs, disappears into the kitchen and comes back out with his lukewarm tea. “Spot of guy trouble there, Leon?”
“No, no. No trouble. I’m fine. Just fine.”
“Sounds like it.”
“Aren’t you supposed to feed this fish and be out of here?”
Damon moves back to the bathroom and the gush of running liquid stops. “Your bath’s almost ready.” His expression dances when I reach the hot bath of diluted milk. For show, he picks up a bottle of milk, cracks the lid, and pours it into the bath.
The glug and splash is deafening as milk hits more milk.
I smile wanly.
He grins. “In you hop, babe.”
Chapter Three
Damon crosses his arms and watches me contemplating all that lactose.
It only has an effect on me if I ingest it. Right?
He grins as if he expects me to crack and tell him the milk is all a big mistake. He’s standing close, which is distracting. His nipples are hard and huge and my mind is doing weird picture associations when I look from him to the bath.
I jerk my head away and concentrate on the legs of my pyjamas.
“You can take those fluffy duckies in with you,” Damon says. “If you want something to play with.”
I scowl at him and start plucking the buttons of my ducky pyjama top. He eyes me with more naughtiness than I remember, and I’m not exactly immune to it.
But I will ignore the little thrills that shoot down my spine.
Damon is a no go. He is the last person I’ll ever let inside me again. As long as the sun goes up and the moon does its thing every 28 days, it won’t happen. Not if we’re stranded on an island. Not if we’re the last gay men on earth.
I shove down my pyjama bottoms, peel off my socks, my tighty whities—
“Don’t do it.” He’s at my side, sliding calloused fingers down my arm, coaxing me back from the tub.
I shiver and raise a stubborn chin. “It’s good for my complexion.”
Blunt fingertips graze over goose bumps. “While your complexion is, admittedly, very good, I’m being a mischievous arse right now.”
I look him in the eyes. In the dull glow of the bathroom, his hazels behold me with gentle amusement.
The effect of his feathered touch in combination with this warmth has me rapidly rising, and I dive under the cover of full cream milk. The ceramic tub is slippery and my butt slides. Damon catches my arms, stopping me from going under. Liquid lurches up around my stomach and flicks onto my cheek, perilously close to my mouth.
His panting breath slides between mine and our next shared look sends me back to my first time, that moment, that second when his gaze collided with mine and electricity rippled between us, wave after mighty wave.
Gah! Nope. Not in a boat, not in a tree, not in a sand dune, just leave me be!
He pulls back, grabs a towel, and keeps a more manageable distance as he dabs the milk from my face.
I keep my voice as nonchalant as possible. “So, whose fish are you taking care of?”
He slings the towel over his shoulder. “Mine.”
“Yours?”
“If you hadn’t hung up on your mum, she might’ve told you she offered me the place for a while.”
I do some real suave conversational blinking.
“I sure was surprised, seeing your car in the port when I got home last night. Even more surprised to find you’d kidnapped Fidget. Your door swung open when I knocked, and I still don’t know what to make of you hugging a shovel.”
“It disappeared.”
“I took it off you when you almost decapitated yourself.”
I don’t remember any of that. “God. If you were an actual murderer, I’d be dead.”
“Unless I like to toy with my prey first.”
“Damon!”
“Kidding. Just kidding.” His laughter morphs to a cheeky eyebrow raise. “Or am I?”
I splash him with milk. “I’m back for a good while. Start looking for alternative accommodation.”
“Sure. And if you’re looking for an alternative boyfriend—”
I splash him again.
“I get it, not me.” He dries himself. “Why not visit Tai?”
Visit Tai.
Maybe Damon’s right. Maybe that’s what I need.
Find a guy.
Prove I’m someone interesting.
I scowl thinking of Karl—and his friends’—assessment of me and throw on jeans and a shirt. The library where Tai works should be open already.
I scarf down a piece of dry toast, and totally don’t gawk at Damon trundling to his bedroom in a waist-wrapped towel. All those rivulets of water over sleek muscle . . . I rub my eyes. This whole thing is surreal. I’m half expecting to wake up from the mother of all wet drea—nightmares.
Damon emerges from his room in sturdy worker’s shorts, boots, and a dark t-shirt with a building logo on it. He catches me staring and nabs my second piece of toast from my fingers. He takes a good bite and sets it back. A carton of milk comes out from the fridge and Damon chugs straight from the box, the quiet smirk in his eye aimed at me. “Thanks for breakfast. I’m heading to lay concrete for the new school hall.”