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By King's Command

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“Thank you, lovey,” Belinda gives me one of her warmest smiles as I bring her a new glass of champagne. “I swear, sometimes you can read my mind.”

She takes a long pleasurable sip, her eyes closing in appreciation. That’s something I like about her; she’s not blasé about her sumptuous lifestyle. She’s one of those rare people who actually enjoy every single minute of their privileged life. She knows good champagne when she drinks it and she doesn’t pretend to have a fashionable chronic dissatisfaction with things.

“Having fun yet?” she teases, an evil twinkle in her eyes. Damn her, she knows how I feel about this sort of function – and about having to wear a tuxedo.

“Can barely contain myself,” I grind out through my charming smile.

There aren’t many people for whom I’d endure this kind of shindig. Unfortunately for me, Belinda Connolly is one of them.

“You look stunning, if it’s any consolation,” she commiserates mischievously. “And Melanie Windermere is absolutely livid with jealousy.”

Feral satisfaction curves the ruby red of her lips as I brush my hand to her lower back and murmur, “You’re evil,” close to her ear.

She’s a mean one, Belinda. Outrageously flirty and irreverent. A good ten years older than me. Knows everyone who’s anyone and entertains me with gossip that she distils with a wonderfully sharp tongue and a prickly Brit accent to boot – an evening out with her is never dull.

Belinda is more of a friend than anything else now. She was one of my first clients, back in the days when I took a stab at being a bodyguard. Actually, you could say she’s a little responsible for my becoming an escort. It’s amazing what boredom will make a man do when he hits retirement.

“Oh, darling, you should know better than to parade around a room full of people in that bag of a dress,” she says in a pitying undertone, virtually addressing a middle-aged, self-important woman wearing a mess of scarlet froufrou. “I wonder who was heartless enough to let her think she could still pull it off.”

I’m about to venture a guess when an apparition makes the air freeze in my lungs.

Crap.

Oh, I hate it when that happens.

All cold blue eyes and chevronned brow, the Ice King has just entered the room. His features are compressed into a dry, serious expression, letting the world know he’s not happy to be here but making a colossal effort at pretending.

And my gut twinges with a little pang of apprehension; some of my clients react badly to meeting me out of my usual context – in real life. His highness may not like coming face to face with his dirty secret fantasy. In public at that.

He scans the distinguished crowd with his usual aloofness, lips slightly pursed, a flute of champagne untasted in his hand. I’m still flying under the radar for the moment, too far away for him to spot me.

“Oh my, so he did come,” Belinda marvels sottovoce, catching sight of my client.

Talk about a golden opportunity. Too good to pass up.

“Who’s the dour face?” I enquire, oh-so-cool with my life.

“That’s Daniel Jackson,” she informs me. “Doctor Jackson, I should say: he’s got a couple of PhDs to his name.”

“A couple?”

“He’s what my dear Winston called ‘gifted’. One of those geniuses who can turn their hands to anything and succeed with disturbing ease.”

“So he’s got tenure at the university?”

“Lord, no!” She chokes on a mirthless chuckle. “He’s the unfortunate heir to the Ballard estate. Rich as God, the poor sod.”

“That doesn’t sound so unfortunate.”

“Just look at him: does he seem happy to you?”

We both look on as a young woman desperately tries to start a conversation with him at the other end of the room. His expression is probably the stoniest I’ve ever seen on him. He’s barely civil to her, not even meeting her eyes as she plows on bravely.

“I think that girl is the unfortunate one here,” I note crisply. It’s a letdown, to be honest. I don’t care how uncomfortable you feel in this kind of situation, you just don’t do that to a girl. “What a pretentious asshole.”

“Winston used to say he’s a brilliant, warm-hearted, but very private young man. You see my husband knew his grandfather, Nicholas Ballard,” Belinda explains.

“I find ‘warm-hearted’ somewhat hard to believe,” I mutter, watching as the young woman throws in the towel and slinks back into the sidelines, crestfallen and presumably close to tears.

“Well, the man has a bit of a sad story. I don’t know all the details, but he was orphaned at a young age and for some reason his grandfather – bit of a crackpot, by the way – didn’t want to take care of him, so he went through several foster homes until he was 15. That’s when Theodore Ballard, Nicholas’s brother, remembered he existed and actually adopted him.”

“Teddy Ballard? The guy who owned a third of Chicago?”

“And a good chunk of Toronto, yes. All part of Dr Jackson’s inheritance.”

Well, shit. From rags to riches.

“The Ballards were a loveless bunch,” my friend comments as she finishes her glass. “The poor lad probably has more issues than I have shoes.”

She doesn’t even know the half of it.

And the evening suddenly takes a turn for the worst as Daniel Jackson’s piercing gaze stops on Belinda and me from across the room.

His expression remains stony and his eyes arctic, but I’m thinking his brain is going from dismay to dread and all shades in between. Yet he decides to face the music and approaches us. Gotta hand it to him – he’s got guts.

“Daniel, so lovely to see you here,” Belinda greets him with a genuine smile.

“Good evening, Mrs Connolly.” He kisses her on the cheek, then turns to me, looking for all the world like he’s never had my cock so far up his ass he could taste it. Belinda dutifully makes introductions.

“Daniel, this is my good friend, Colonel Jack O’Neill. Jack, Dr Daniel Jackson.”

We shake hands. It’s a strange, new experience as I suddenly realize that, as awkward as it may sound, we have never touched hands before. And I have touched him. A lot. And in many interesting, sensitive places. But never like this – in this ordinary, civilised way.

His hand is a little cold but his handshake is firm, honest and balanced. Trustworthy. Can’t find fault with it. I notice the absence of a wedding band – I always wondered. They usually take them off before I cross the threshold.

“Pleasure to meet you, Colonel,” Daniel Jackson says a little stiffly. I can see how my being a military officer could be a complete and frankly disturbing surprise for him, but he takes it on the chin.

“Retired,” I amend. “Likewise, Doctor Jackson.”

We’re both being so smooth and polite that Belinda, shrewd as she may be, can’t imagine for a second that Dr. Jackson enjoys ramming his cock down my throat as a hobby.

Small talk ensues during which Dr. Jackson is made to admit that the reason he’s here at the inauguration is because he was the one who financed the refurbishment of this wing of the Museum. He then excuses himself and moves on to the next group of people he feels dutifully bound to recognize.

“I say he needs a good shag,” Belinda announces under her breath. “Something to loosen him up a bit. He can be so damn frigid and uptight, it’s like he’s got a stalagmite stuck up his arse.”

I snort and choke a little on my bubbly – she winks at me as she deftly catches another flute of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter.

“It’s a shame he broke off his engagement last year,” she muses.

“Engagement?” I blurt out in surprise, then quickly cover my tracks. “Do people still bother with those?”

“Mm-hmm. In his world, it’s rather compulsory. It gives the lawyers time to draft the pre-nup,” Belinda explains cheekily. “He was engaged to one of the Gardner daughters for years, and then out of the blue he broke it off about a year ago.” I do a small calculation. About a year ago: that has to be just before we first met. “Mind you, I can’t blame him. She was one cold little snake.”

“A perfect match,” I snipe, laying it on a bit thick to defuse any suspicion.

“Now don’t be judgemental, my dear,” she nags. “He’s a little standoffish but I’m sure his heart is in the right place.”

“Yeah. In a mason jar on a shelf somewhere.”

“Oh, you horrible man,” she lightly thwaps me on the arm with her ridiculously small clutch purse. Her grin is young and impish.

With a smile of my own, I wrap a conniving arm around her waist and guide her towards another room filled with other people to dazzle and safer subjects of conversations to tackle.

After a good hour of milling about through simpering ladies and droning gentlemen, Belinda takes a powder room break to chat freely with some of her cackling bosom friends while I wander in search of an empty room where I can drop the debonair smile and scratch a ball.

As luck would have it, the only place where I might catch a break is occupied by none other than the solitary figure of Dr. Jackson. Staring into a glass showcase with an irritated frown.

I sigh and bite the bullet.

“Dr. Jackson,” I greet as I stop beside him. The shelves are filled with colourful clay pots that look Egyptian if I had to hazard a guess.

He lets a sidelong glance slide my way, then trains his eyes back onto the crumbly artefacts.

“Colonel O’Neill,” he replies in a low, quiet voice – I’m sure my rank and name have never sounded sexier.

“What are we looking at?” I ask after an endless minute of heavy silence.

“A mistake, among other things,” he mumbles gravely. “They switched the explanatory notes of 12 and 15.”

“Ah. I take it one of those PhDs is in Archaeology?”

“Correct.”

Seriously? I try to make sense of this. How would a doctorate in archaeology prepare you for administrating the wealth of the Ballard family?

“So… a colonel,” he then remarks.

“Yes. Air Force. Retired.” Did I mention retired? It feels important to me.

“Quite a career change.”

“Not that it’s any business of yours,” I comment amenably. This is neither the time nor place.

He stays silent for a few seconds, then grants, “You’re right. My apologies.”

This is another thing I don’t get about him. Why does he speak like that? Why such a stilted way of saying things? Who talks like that? It’s like he lives in a fucking 19th century novel sometimes. I know he can talk like a normal guy – hell, I’ve heard the filthiest orders come out of that prim mouth.

“I like Mrs Connolly,” he informs me. “Her husband was always kind to me.” And I don’t know where he’s going with this. Is this a subtle warning not to hurt her? Is he fishing for information?

“Belinda’s a good friend of mine; she often says I would’ve loved Winston.”

I see him process the information.

A peal of posh, slightly inebriated laughter from another room disturbs the quiet that surrounds us. He closes his eyes for a second, rolls his shoulders a bit, like he’s trying to get rid of a kink. When his eyes open again and meet mine in the reflection of the glass case, I read something familiar in them.

“Are you available tonight?” he asks.

My heart thuds and my guts tighten at the question.

I don’t do last minute, for fuck’s sake – and this is last minute in the most literal sense. Yet, my treacherous cock rears and twitches in excitement at the mere idea.

“Are you asking me to strand my friend in a museum for a client?”

He frowns in annoyance.

“No, I’m asking if you’re available after your evening out with your friend.”

I try not to let him see how floored I am by his request.

“I don’t know. It could be a long evening,” I hedge. I have no idea how soon Belinda will want to call it a night.

“I can wait,” he says, a hint of dark promise in his low voice.

Damn right, you can wait – ‘cause I’m not coming.

“Same hotel,” he goes on, quietly sure of himself. “There’ll be a room reserved for you under the name of Jack Quigley. Oh, and keep the tuxedo.” And with that, the little fucker leaves – a small satisfied smile pulling at a corner of his mouth.

I don’t remember agreeing to this.

I’m standing on my own, staring at a stupid showcase filled with mislabelled pots with a stupid hard on, and I don’t remember ever agreeing to going with him tonight. Yet I apparently did, because I already have my marching orders.

Well, fuck!

The rest of the evening is a blur. Even though I catch sight of Dr. Jackson a few more times, our eyes never meet again, so I can’t let him know I’m not doing it.

It’s 3 am when the bright-eyed and bushy-tailed receptionist hands me the key card to my room and, by the time I reach the correct floor, I’m still not sure if I’m going to go through with it.

I don’t do last minute.

I like carefully planned; I like meticulously scheduled. Call it obsessive, call it military mindset, call it old-fashioned alpha male shit, but I need to be in control of this. It’s my job and it’s my ass on the line and I have no backup. I hate that.

I’m about to knock on the door, when I remember I have the key and it’s supposed to be my room. I push the card into the slot and open the door.

The room does an unnerving fade-to-light thing on its own, dragging me out of the comfortable darkness and dipping me in a mellow, artificial twilight. I loosen my bowtie out of habit. It’s a smaller room, similar to the one we had downgraded to the last time his highness had one of his spur of the moment urges.

Still luxurious. Little tray of coloured macarons on a table – one’s been eaten. His Smartphone is there, too.

“I ate one, I hope you don’t mind,” he says from the bathroom doorway. “I can’t resist the cappuccino ones.”

“Be my guest.”

I take a long look at him. He cuts quite a figure in his devastatingly perfect tuxedo – all long legs and undone bowtie. His hair isn’t as short as last time and his cold blue gaze is sweeping over me proprietarily – his expression distinctly complacent. He’s more tyrant than king, right now.

He looks so fucking unsurprised to see me standing here I could punch him.

This should be simple: it’s our fifth appointment, after all. But a strange silence stretches in the room. He stays where he is, in the darker hallway near the door, and I stay where I am, near the macarons. It’s the first time I don’t feel quite at ease with him. He caught me off-guard at the museum, and I think I’m still reeling.

But then it’s still just an appointment. His needs haven’t changed: he wants me to blow him, and then he wants me to fuck him. It isn’t that complicated.

Definitely not rocket science.

The pale blue eyes are intent and fast-filling with a heady mix of lust and need – he licks his lips. And that’s all the encouragement I need.

I slowly walk up to him, a nonchalant hand in my pocket. I stand there for a second, just a breath away from him. I wish I knew what he’s playing at. After all this time I still don’t know what the man’s made of. He’s controlling but reserved, arrogant but respectful, quiet but uninhibited – cold but hot.

My fingers sink into the soft hair at the back of his head. I kiss him – and he responds immediately. Kissing me back, touching me in return, his hands sliding under my jacket and crawling up my back avidly. His lips are sweet and taste of coffee and, to my surprise, his tongue also comes out to play a little.

Tuxedo pants can’t do much to hide or cover an erection the way jeans can. He knows it and he takes advantage, grinding into me obscenely – I groan helplessly at the intensity of the newfound sensations. It’s enough to kick him into action. With a feral growl, he propels me against the wall, mashing his lips against mine as he tears the jacket off my back and throws it aside.

“Get on your knees,” he orders sharply. I go down, but not before his hands grab my shirt and pull it open – the forcefulness of it ripping the top three buttons.

I’m on my knees, my shirt is hanging open at the collar and he takes a second to admire his handy work. Then he unceremoniously pulls his cock out of his pants, full and glistening, and presents it to my mouth – I part my lips.

“Only your tongue and nothing else,” he instructs precisely, his voice heavy and tight with lust.

He’s going to kill me. One of these days, I swear he’s going to be the death of me.

His free hand comes to the side of my face, fingers sliding under my jaw encouragingly. I dutifully flick my tongue out and slowly lick the underside of his glans. He hisses in delight, “ahhh yesss.” So I do it again, and again, and again. Losing myself in the taste of him, until the head is bathed in my spit and his fist is pumping over his shaft in a punishing rhythm.

It’s all way too intense to last. He comes with a shout and a curse. Ribbons of come criss-crossing my waiting tongue, my upturned face, drooling down my chin. He then presses the head of his cock to the base of my throat and milks one last spurt with a pained mewl – the branding complete.

He eventually braces himself against the wall above my head, eyes screwed shut as he tries to get his breathing under control. I’m stunned by the abandon and appetite he’s just shown. He’s incredible when he lets go. The real him is so breathtakingly beautiful.

My hands go around his thighs – I can feel his release trailing down my chest.

He pushes away from the wall and stumbles back a step to lean against the opposite wall. He looks at me, his stormy blue gaze a little wild around the edges. His spent cock is still hanging out of his open fly, oozing semen on the delicately expensive material of his tux. He looks utterly debauched. I wish Belinda could see him: Dr. Daniel Jackson is definitely not uptight or frigid. He’s a fucking animal when he’s motivated.

“Go to the bathroom. Clean yourself up,” he pants, eyes unfocussed, making a gesture towards my face. “Stay dressed.”

I get to my feet, the bulge in my pants a little conspicuous. In the bathroom, I try to be quick and efficient but my head is spinning a little – my cock highjacking most of the blood flow. I scrub my face, rinse my mouth, wipe down my chest, take my shoes and socks off, get rid of my underwear and put my pants back on as fast as my diminished motor skills will let me. When all this is done, it suddenly dawns on me that I don’t have my supplies with me. Good thing my client thought of that. A brown bag on the edge of the bath tub holds lube and a box of condoms – I’m all set when I finally join him.

He hasn’t moved. He’s still leaning against the wall where I left him. He’s tucked himself in. He’s barefoot. His eyes are closed.

He opens them when I take him in my arms. They’re all wide, black pupils and thin, ice blue rims. I kiss his lips and his arms snake over my shoulders and around my neck, fingers raking through my hair possessively. He breathes a sigh of contentment – a beautiful sound.

I deepen the kiss and he gives in willingly, for once welcoming my tongue in a sensual duel with his own. Oh yeah, that kiss tastes like victory. I press into him, tightening my hold. He’s mine. So mine.

It goes on for a few long minutes. Deep, earth-moving kisses, punctuated with more playful bites and nips. He’s never let me do that before, so I make the most of it. Who knows how long I have before he comes to his senses and reverts to his self-imposed constraints?

He breaks the kiss sloppily and locks eyes with me.

“Undress me,” he orders in a soft purr. “Then take your cock out and fuck me against the wall like I’m your toy.”

“Shit,” I yelp as I grab the base of my cock to stave off the orgasm that would spell the end of this. The fucking bastard. One of these days I’m going to come at one of his filthy commands and it’ll serve him right. “Fuck!”

“Indeed, sweetheart, that’s the idea.”

The little shit – using my own words. I attack his mouth to shut him up and flatten him against the wall – blindly peeling off his jacket. Then I burn a path of lovebites from his chin to his left ear as I rip open his cuffs – I hear what are probably insanely expensive cufflinks hit the carpet. Then I’m sliding down the sweet curve of his neck, licking and suckling and biting as I twist and tear the shirt open – the buttons fly in quick succession, each with a satisfying pinging sound.

My hands are all over his chest, pinching his nipples as I return to his mouth for a demanding kiss. I slip the shirt off his broad shoulders; his arms are finally free and he wraps one around my neck while the other slides down the back of my shirt for his hand to grip my tuxedoed ass.

I keep going, undoing belt and button and unzipping fly, then sliding my hands over and around the hard planes of his hips, to the swell of his ass, pushing the pants down as I go – all the while kissing him like it’s a religion.

He steps out of the pants and, finally, he’s utterly naked in my arms – and I’m fully dressed. And he’s really getting off on this, getting off on the inequality of it. The way the material rubs over his bare skin, over his erection. He’s plastered against me, all lean rippling muscles and broad shoulders, kissing me back voraciously now.

I nearly come on the spot when his hand closes hard over the erection tenting my pants. I hear the zipper slide down – feel his barely-there fingers guide my cock out.

“Fuck your toy,” he orders harshly. “Now.”

Holy. Shit.

I whirl him around so fast he must see stars, force him to lean forward, braced against the wall, and widen his stance in a patdown posture. I take myself in hand, roll the condom on, slick it up and press against his opening.

He’s ready. I don’t know how or when, but he is ready and slick for my invasion. Is that what he was doing in the bathroom when I arrived?

I enter him in a slow, steady thrust, sinking into him mercilessly until the only thing separating us is the thin layer of my pants, the zipper biting into my skin.

He moans in approval.

This is how he wants it. He wants to feel my clothes against his bare ass. He wants to feel cheap and used, like he’s not important enough to warrant my taking off my clothes for him. He wants to feel like a whore. Tonight, and for the next few minutes, he wants to be my toy – and nothing could make me hornier. I can’t take him deep in this position, but what I can do is hit and plow over his happy spot until he screams his pretty head off. Which is exactly what I proceed to do, blithely giving his prostate the good pounding it deserves.

He’s soon clenching his teeth to keep inside the howls desperately trying to escape his throat. We’re right next to the door, so I guess yelling at the top of his lungs is a no-no.

I, being the eternal officer and gentleman, try to prolong the torture for as long as I can.

When I feel him ripe for the picking, I anchor one hand on his hip and grab him by the hair – pulling him backwards into an upright position. He gasps in surprise, his hands clawing helplessly at my wrists – not to stop me, but to gain some purchase, some measure of support as he balances on his toes precariously with every one of my thrusts. I hold him arched back against me like a longbow, slowly fucking him with deliberate precision. He moans and gasps through gritted teeth. That’s right, your highness: that’s what it feels like to be someone’s toy.

No equilibrium.

No control.

No choice.

I keep a slow pace, just brushing the right spot inside him – his breath hitches every time I graze it. I sink and twist my fingers further into the short stands and yank his head back some more.

Payback’s a bitch, your highness.

“Come for me, Daniel,” I purr in his ear, then give a long screwing thrust that grinds the head of my cock into his prostate and undoes him – as it undoes me.

He goes rigid, his already arched body at breaking point, and screams with his mouth closed. He’s coming so hard I can hear his orgasm splatter messily over the crumpled remains of his tuxedo on the floor. The fury of that climax is blinding and we shake through it. Fireworks are going off behind my eyes as I pour my load into the condom. God, I wish there wasn’t any damn latex. Wish I could fill him up, make him mine. Keep him as my toy. My extraordinary, precious toy.

I’m here to catch him when his legs betray him, buckling under the strain; I fold him in my arms, keep him safe and cradled as the tremors fade away. He moans as I slip out of him.

I lead him to the bed, lay him down under the sheets, take care of the usual clean up. Then I undress and slide into bed with him – spoon up behind him. He’s warm. He’s asleep.

It’s 4 am and I think I’m in deeper trouble than I’ve ever been – this man has me wrapped around his little finger. The thoughts that cross my lust-filled mind when I’m balls deep inside him are not safe – they’re not right.

I shouldn’t feel this way about a client.

I can’t feel this way about a client.

“Jack.”

“Hmm?”

“Jack, I have to leave,” his soft voice tells me from somewhere behind me.

Shit. I open an eye. 6 am.

“Dammit,” I mutter, rubbing a drowsy hand over my face.

“It’s okay, stay in bed,” he whispers gently. “I ordered for some breakfast to be brought up at 9.”

He’s kneeling on the edge of the bed, bent over me, an unsure hand on my shoulder. I roll onto my back. His eyes are pale and colourless in the dim light.

“You didn’t need to do that,” I croak.

“My thank you, for making yourself available last night. Also, I’ve arranged for some clothes to be delivered for 8.30.” With every word he utters he gets a little more distant, his voice firming into a business-like tone. He’s slowly slipping back into his regal persona.

“Uh… thanks,” I rasp. This is a little too surreal for me – I close my eyes.

“Jack, stay awake,” he says a little impatiently, tapping his fingertips on my shoulder as he sits on the bed. “I need to know something.”

Goddammit, can’t a guy catch a break? I decide to heave myself up into a sitting position, hoping verticality will do some good to my brain. It almost brings us nose to nose. “What?” I grunt shortly.

“Do you go bareback with clients? And if so, what sort of… compensation do you ask?” Oookay. His eyes are guarded, his lips are pursed. He’s depressingly serious about this.

“I don’t do bareback.” Like I don’t do last minute. And I’m beginning to have a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach.

“Never?”

“It’s safer for everyone involved,” I tell him. Do I need to remind him that rampant promiscuity is in my job description?

“But… so, you always wear condoms,” he tells me.

“Yes.” Always. No way. No how will I do it without. Health is not something I take for granted.

“And I suppose you get yourself tested for STDs regularly.”

“That’s right,” I agree warily, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“So, in fact, you’re possibly the safest partner anyone could hope for,” he points out reasonably.

Well, shit – I should have seen that one coming. I can’t even come up with a retort.

“What if I got tested? Would you agree to it?” he pushes.

I pinch the bridge of my nose and try to clear my head; I need to find a good reason to refuse – quick.

“All right, then,” he says, apparently having made up his mind – as well as mine. “I’ll send you the test results via email before our next app...”

“Daniel, hold it!” I snap. He looks at me curiously, as though this is the first time another human being has used his first name. “Just so you know. You’d have to multiply the rate by ten,” I inform him meanly.

He levels a disbelieving look at me. Cocks his head to the side.

An unusual hint of a smirk starts to curve his lips.

“It’s endearing that you think this could deter me,” he notes.

Fuck.

Busted.

“You won’t even like it,” I scowl tiredly.

“You don’t know that.”

“It’s messy, Daniel. You’ll have come leaking out of your ass for hours after it.” Disgust is my best ally, here.

“And thank you for this delightful mental image, but I think we both know what you’re trying to do,” he argues. “If you don’t want to do it with me, at least be professional about it and just say so.”

“I don’t know if I want to do it with you or with any other client for that matter,” I flare in annoyance. Except, where he’s concerned – I do know.

His frown contracts briefly, then his expression turns carefully neutral – perfectly schooled.

“I’ll get tested in any case. You can make up your mind later,” he states quietly.

He turns away to get up, then stops. Turns to me again. Leans in and kisses me on the lips.

“Have a nice day, Jack,” he says a little awkwardly.

I remain speechless for a couple of seconds, then…

“Take care, Daniel.”

What else can I say? My heart is beating so hard it’s about to blast a hole in my chest.

I hear the door close after him.

I let myself fall back on my pristine pillow. Grab the one beside me, slam it over my face – it smells of him.

I groan my frustration into it.

If I’m falling for this guy I’m going to have to shoot myself.

 

***End of Chapter 5***