Stay the Night

by Scarlett Parrish

  Much.

  What I did do was ignore the hint of treasure trail as his waistband shifted and stop halfway across the living room floor, panic flaring in the pit of my stomach like desire gone horribly wrong. I clutched two beer bottles between the fingers of one hand and with the other, held a third halfway to my lips. “What?”

  Gary, beside Steven on the settee, shrugged. “I don't see why we can't have a few people round.” He puffed out a breath, ruffling a perspiration-dampened fringe. Steven had had more boxes and bags to bring upstairs than expected. I'd arrived home as the worst of the work was done and for that, had been very grateful. Not out of selfishness—well, not entirely. But it would have been hard to cope with the sight of Steven's arms shifting boxes in that grey vest he wore.

  He had tattoos and I was in so, so much trouble.

  Avoiding him for an hour or two on moving day had been easy enough—I'd made the excuse that I was going to the local supermarket for supplies. Beer, pizza and the like. I'd have to pull off a monumental anti-social act if I was going to avoid him until my feelings died down. No, not feelings. Painful hard-on. Could take a while. So I'd picked up extra Kleenex while at the shops.

  “I was only joking you.” Steven leant forward, the switch from reclining to erect— oh, Goddamn it, Kit, why did you have to think of that word? —lending him a kinetic air, the feel of someone with whom I’d find it hard to keep up. “I knew it’d wind him up,” he added as an aside to Gary, the wide smile becoming a conspiratorial smirk even as he looked at me. Me.

  “Sounds like you’ve got him pegged.”

  I opened my mouth to speak, caught Steven’s eye as I advanced, reluctantly and not reluctantly. For God’s sake, Gary, why did you have to use that word?

  “I like to think so,” Steven murmured, nodding his thanks when I handed him a bottle.

  I held my breath in anticipation of his fingers brushing mine as he took his drink. Relief and disappointment coursed through me in equal measure when that contact didn’t come and I turned reluctantly away. Gary seemed oblivious to what had just passed between his two housemates.

  I wasn’t even sure myself, but my confusion hinted at there being something I’d missed.

  Fuck, I thought, throwing back another cooling mouthful of beer. Was Steven sending me an overture?

  I held a hand to the back of my neck, must have grimaced, because Gary looked at me in concern. “You getting another migraine?”

  “I bloody hope not,” I said, rolling my shoulder muscles. There was definitely tension there, but that could have been down to the six-feet-tall orgasm-in-human-form lounging on my settee. Our settee, now. Boning someone—or, in my case, being boned by someone—I lived with was such a bad idea. So was skulking in the bathroom, whacking off to my latest memory of the way his hair fell across his face, but it was safer that way. Just until I got over this stupid crush. Or my arm fell off and I wanked myself into a coma.

  “You get migraines?” Steven winced. “I don’t envy you that. My sister gets them. We have to creep around the house not making a sound for twenty-four hours until she resurfaces.”

  “Oh, we don’t have to do that. He drugs himself into unconsciousness and sleeps for around about that length of time.”

  “Is that healthy?” Steven asked.

  “A lot healthier than rolling around on the floor in agony.”

  “But…” Steven’s frown actually made him look genuinely concerned and I prayed that he wouldn’t be that most rare of creatures—a hot, single, caring gay guy. Because if he was, I was well and truly fucked. And not in the way I liked. “What if you’re sick?”

  “Rarely happens. I prefer to just take as many drugs as I can handle, climb into bed and wait for it to pass. But no…” I shook my head, wincing, though under my breath. “I’m not getting a migraine. I think. I better not be. Anyway…” I held up the now-empty bottle. “I’m gonna make this my first and last. Get one of those migraine strips out of the bathroom cabinet just in case.”

  “Those what?”

  “Peel-off strips with gel on them,” Gary said. “He sticks them on the back of his neck and they smell so bloody antiseptic.”

  “They work,” I insisted. “They help when my neck goes stiff. Even if they do feel cold.”

  “Oh right. I’ll have to let my sister know. Don’t think she’s ever tried them,” Steven said. “You guys gimme your bottles—I’ll take them through to the bin.”

  “We can’t have the new guy clearing up on his first day.” But Gary’s protests were as empty as the two bottles he shoved into Steven’s arms. I, the lightweight, only had one to surrender.

  “Think I’ll head upstairs myself soon. Get my clothes unpacked, all that settling-in shit. Guess if I’m living here now I need to make myself at home.”

  “You don’t want to stay down here and watch a movie or something?” Gary asked.

  “Nah, I’m tired,” Steven said from the living room doorway. “Some other time when I haven’t been shifting boxes all day.”

  Damn, he had to put that image in my head again. He’d no doubt worn that vest for comfort and convenience, but it was inconveniently making me feel very uncomfortable, especially with front-row seats for a close-up viewing of his ink—Celtic knotting banded around his upper left arm and barbed wire around his upper right. The only thing hotter than tattooed arms was tattooed, perspiring arms, muscles cording with tension.

  “Kit?” That concerned frown again, and I got so angry at myself I nearly told him to fuck off.

  “Nothing. It’s nothing.” I shook my head, but the images remained. It wasn’t a migraine—I hoped—and I didn’t need painkillers. What I needed was a good hard fuck but that hadn’t happened in ages and wasn’t likely to any time soon. I just wasn’t the kind of guy who got lucky with anyone who didn’t just want a one-night stand any more. I wasn’t overly-romantic about these things, but a deep and meaningful overnight affair with a housemate would fuck up the household dynamic more than it would my arse and with my history…

  “Well, if you guys don’t mind, I’m gonna stay down here and put all of Kit’s DVDs in the wrong casings just to fuck with his head next time he wants to watch Supernatural.” Gary grinned.

  “You—”

  “You watch Supernatural?” That made-my-balls-ache grin was back on Steven’s face, like all his birthdays had come at once.

  “Oh yeah,” Gary said. “Usually when he’s alone. So if he puts the DVD on, just stay out of his way. He turns into a total girl when Jensen—”

  “More of a Jared Padalecki guy myself.” Steven shrugged. “Anyway. I’ll see to the rubbish and head upstairs. I’ve only got tomorrow off, so I want to get all my things straightened out and tidied up. As much as I can.” He backed away into the kitchen and I breathed out, suppressing the groan into silence.

  “Right.” This conversation had me tied up in knots more tangled than the one inked on Steven’s arm, and I couldn’t put my finger on why I was so unsettled. “I’m gonna…” I thumbed over my shoulder in the general direction of the stairwell. “Go up…”

  “Yeah. You do that,” Gary said, laughing.

  “Don’t you dare.” I cast a glance at the DVD cabinet, then back at him. “Don’t.”

  “Would I?”

  “Yes, you would. But you won’t, or I will hurt you.”

  “Yeah? How?”

  “Next time Gemma calls I’ll tell her you’re at the clap clinic.”

  “You f—”

  I laughed. Quietly, because of the creeping stiffness at the back of my neck. “I think we understand each other. Night, then.”

  I shivered on entering the bathroom. Or maybe it was a shudder, born of nervous energy. I’d escaped but only momentarily. The guy was living here now and I’d been unable to come up with any excuse to say no, strike him off the list, beyond, “He distracts me from getting shit done.” So I’d remained silent as I signed the paperwork, told myself to think about the rent
money.

  The twink. The twink in accounting. Ask him out. If—when—it all goes tits-up, you won’t have to see him nearly as much as you do Steven.

  This could not end well.

  I told myself the slight trembling in my hands as I opened the bathroom cabinet was down to the migraine aura, the premonition, the calm before the storm. If I took enough painkillers, got enough peace and quiet, there was a chance I could avoid the worst of it.

  “Fuck.” Even removing the strip’s backing was a bit too much for me to manage, and I sank onto the edge of the bath, waiting for my head to stop spinning.

  “You okay?”

  I lifted my head and the stiffness in the back of my neck became an ache. “Yeah.” It was a lie, but he didn’t know the exact truth of what I felt.

  “I was just on my way to my room to make a start on sorting all my things out. Thought I heard you say something.” Steven leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, and the sight of his muscles tautening made me feel sick.

  “Just said ‘fuck’, that’s all.” I hung my head, reasoning it was better than looking at him, and fiddled with the peel-off backing on the damn painkilling strip. The nausea was completely unrelated to the burgeoning migraine and no amount of medication would cure it.

  “You often swear to an empty room?” His voice neared me; funny how I was more aware of that than his footsteps.

  “Yeah, when I can’t get this fucking thing sorted,” I muttered, wishing he’d back off and stop making me want him. Maybe it was because it had been an embarrassingly long time since I’d got laid. I’d barely know what to do if he came onto me no matter how much I wanted him to. I wished he wouldn’t, though. Prayed he wouldn’t.

  “Here. Let me.”

  “No, it’s fine, I—”

  But he sat beside me on the edge of the bath and took the strip out of my hand. “Tiff’s hands always go a bit funny when she’s ill as well.”

  “Tiff?”

  “My sister. Tiffany.” Steven frowned as he used a fingernail to separate the strip from the peel-off backing. “There. Done it. Yeah, her hand-eye coordination’s shot when she gets a migraine. You put this on the back of your neck?”

  “Thanks. I’ll—” I shivered as soon as the cooling gel touched my neck and Steven’s hand curved against me, pressing the strip into place.

  “What’s wrong?” he whispered, like we were in a library or hospital waiting room, rather than a bathroom. His voice was so low it didn’t even echo against the tiles and porcelain.

  “Cold. It’s…” I stared at my feet, willing him to lift his hand away, but if he kept it there, I’d start to get used to it, start to want other things. I didn’t deal well with wanting. It always left me unsatisfied. “Cold.” I rolled my shoulders, but his hand stayed put.

  “Does this stick to your neck, then? I’ve—”

  “Yeah, it…” I made the mistake of watching his mouth. “It’s all right, I’ve got it. You can…”

  “Need anything else?”

  “No. Yes.” What the fuck did you say that for?

  Steven laughed, a close-lipped huff, barely more than a smile with the quietest of breaths behind it. “Make up your mind.”

  “I have trouble thinking straight when I’m distracted.”

  “You’re distracted? I thought you said you didn’t have a migraine? This was just a precaution?”

  “Yeah, well, sometimes worrying about something happening makes it come”—my speech slowed when his other hand snaked round to the back of my neck— “about.”

  Steven inhaled deeply. Held it. “You seem…” He cocked his head and breathed out just as slowly. “Tightly wound.”

  “You’ve got both hands on my neck.”

  “Am I hurting you?”

  “No, but…” Every muscle in my body wound itself even tighter. The position I was in, made awkward by such tension, ensured I’d have some sore spots in the morning unless I moved or relaxed soon. The first option wasn’t all that attractive; the second, impossible. I gripped the edge of the bath with both hands, knees pointing forward but head turned towards Steven. I could have balanced myself more comfortably by leaning a little closer to him, but if I even brushed his leg accidentally, I’d not stop there.

  “Kit.” He cocked his head further, his brow furrowed in scrutiny. “Why don’t people call you Chris?”

  “Do I look like a Chris to you?”

  “No, you look like a bad-tempered so-and-so.” But he smiled as he said it, then leaned in closer. “Grumpy.”

  “Why have you still got your hands on me, then?”

  “I’m being the Good Samaritan.”

  “By holding my head up?”

  “Yeah.” He pressed his lips together, nodded and said again, so quietly, “Yeah.” He trailed his thumbs lightly over my jaw and I startled, though not enough for him to break contact.

  “Steven.”

  “What is it?”

  “You’ve only lived here five minutes. This is a bit…”

  “I haven’t done anything.”

  “No, but you…” Those thumbs, that light trace, the electricity under my skin, none of that came from Steven being the Good Samaritan, the helpful housemate, the guy I could count on in a crisis. And if he didn’t fucking stop, it’d become even more obvious what he did to me.

  “I’ll admit I was thinking of it,” Steven said.

  “Why haven’t you done anything about it? If you were thinking about it, I mean?”

  “You seem a bit jumpy to me.” His gaze dipped to my mouth. “And like you said, I’ve only lived here five minutes. It’d probably be a bad idea.”

  I gulped. “What would?”

  “This.” He kissed me, and his lips were as warm as his hands, or maybe it was just that the pair of us sucked all warmth out of the air around us. He kissed me, and I let him, frozen into an inability to resist—not that I’d want to—or even respond. He pulled back, frowning, and ran the tip of his tongue over his lips. He hadn’t even tried that with mine, keeping it restrained and light, no pressure. Just a simple first kiss. And I’d fucked up by blanking out and acting like I’d never been kissed before. “I thought you liked me.”

  “I did. Do.” I shook my head, wondered how to best explain my idiotic lack of response.

  “But…”

  “But?” At long last, Steven lifted his hands from my neck and sat back, resting his arms on his legs as he leant forward.

  I took a few seconds to notice I’d exactly echoed his posture, with a Kit Blackman twist—wringing my hands before speaking. “We live together.”

  “Yeah, I know. Maybe only for a few months, though. Who knows?” He’d signed up to the end of this lease, which was six months away and he could move on after that. Or re-sign.

  Not exactly long term.

  This, however, was his first night and I wasn’t looking forward to half a year of awkwardness whenever we passed on the stairs.

  “I tend to fuck these things up.”

  “It was just a kiss.” His thick black brows lifted and he eyed me sideways. “Wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, it was.”

  He waited, and I had no idea what was going to come out of my stupid mouth next.

  “It’s been a while.” Okay, stop now, Blackman. You are officially a pathetic idiot.

  “Have you seen you?”

  I couldn’t help but laugh at that. It was a compliment and coming from someone like him… “Things could get awkward.”

  “Hmm. Like they didn’t feel awkward when I was”—Steven shot a glance at the open door then back at me—”kissing you.”

  “It was a surprise. That’s all.” I wiped my perspiring palms on my jeans and stood, pressing gingerly at the strip on the back of my neck. Whatever was in the painkilling gel felt cold, and the memory of Steven’s hand warmed me up again. “Look, I’m no good at this sort of thing.”

  “What, talking? Kissing? Hey, if you need time to get warmed up I�
�m willing to try again—”

  “No, I mean this. You. Me.” I waved from me to him and back again, unable to decide if there was too much distance between us or not enough.

  “Were you about to use the R-word? Relationships?” Steven’s lips twisted into the kind of smile worn only by those trying desperately not to laugh.

  “God no.” I grimaced. “Christ, what do you think I am?”

  “I’m flattered you kept your disgust under control long enough to let me kiss you,” he muttered, looking away.

  “No, I meant…” But my voice faded away as he rose. I hadn’t wanted to freak him out by mentioning the R-word even if it was to say I didn’t do relationships. Not only that, I didn’t do interaction with other folks much at all. At work I was left pretty much to my own devices as long as the job got done. At home? Gary knew I didn’t like to be disturbed so the same went for my home life.

  “I’d better leave you to it.”

  I didn’t know if the curve to his lips was genuine or forced, didn’t dare look into his eyes to see. Real smiles reached the eyes too, but something told me I’d accidentally insulted him. It happened a lot with me, putting my foot in it unintentionally, but it was different now. I couldn’t just walk away from the person I’d pissed off so I preferred to pretend the insult hadn’t happened in the first place.

  “Hope the migraine doesn’t get any worse.” Steven closed the door softly behind him and though he’d left the room, the conversation didn’t feel over. There was still something left to say.

  But all I came up with was, “Fuck,” forced out through gritted teeth, and an overwhelming desire to kick myself.

  Chapter Four

  On leaving the bathroom, the rhythmic thud at the back of my neck had become a dull half-pain, not as threatening as it had been minutes before. Maybe that had been down to every pulse point in my body responding to Steven’s adrenaline-inducing presence.

  Something like regret settled in the pit of my stomach—one abortive attempt at a kiss to which I’d failed to respond in any way that wasn’t an insult. I’d have been as well saying,