* * *

“I was not,” Oliver said, a few minutes later, “prepared for the worst.”

“Oh, come on. It’s not that bad.”

“When did you last change your sheets?”

“I change my sheets.”

He folded his arms. “That’s not an answer. And if you can’t remember, it’s been too long.”

“Fine. I’ll change my sheets. Just, y’know, I might need to do some laundry first.” I tried not to look at my clothes, which were a little bit everywhere. “Maybe quite a lot of laundry.”

“We are taking a taxi back to mine. Right now.”

“Wow. This is turning into an episode of Queer Eye only with fewer hot men, and without the heartwarming bit where they make you feel good about yourself.”

“I’m truly sorry. I wasn’t intending to judge, but this situation, frankly, demands judgment. I mean, how can you not be miserable living here?”

I threw my hands up in exasperation. “I’m confused. What on earth has given you the impression I’m not miserable?”

“Lucien—”

“Also,” I rushed on, not sure if I was more afraid of him saying something nice or something mean, “your house might be clean, but you’re clearly not happy either. At least I admit it.”

A touch of pink had crept across the top of Oliver’s starkly defined cheekbones. “Yes, I’m lonely. I sometimes feel I haven’t achieved what I should have achieved. On the basis of quite a lot of evidence, I worry that I’m not very easy to care for. But I’m not trying to hide that. I’m just trying to cope with it.”

God, I hated it when he was all strong and vulnerable and honest and decent, and everything I wasn’t. “You’re not…completely difficult to care for. And I think I might have some clean sheets that I bought the last time I realised I didn’t have any clean sheets.”

“Thank you. I know I’m sometimes a bit of a control freak.”

“Really?” I gave him a big-eyed look. “I’ve never noticed.”

We stripped my bed, which I honestly think was less gross than Oliver was making out, although I super wished my, um, personal pleasure device hadn’t bounced out of the sheets and landed right at Oliver’s feet like a dog wanting to go walkies. Except, y’know, up my bum. I shoved it hastily in my bedside drawer which, unfortunately, involved revealing yet more of my, now I thought about it, depressingly onanistic collection.

Whether out of embarrassment or gallantry, Oliver said nothing. Just got on with crimping down the edges of my new sheets until they were glass smooth and hotel room perfect. From there, he changed the pillowcases and the duvet cover, even bothering to do up the little poppers at the bottom which I was pretty sure no human being ever, ever did. And, finally, he started taking off his clothes.

I stared blankly. Or not so blankly. “What are you doing?”

“I’m not sleeping in a three-piece suit, and meaning no disrespect, I don’t especially want to borrow any of”—he made a circular gesture that encompassed the various piles of crap strewn across my floor—“this.”

“That’s fair.” A thought occurred to me. “Hey, does this mean I finally get to meet the V-cut?”

He gave a weird little cough. “You will be passing acquaintances at best.”

“I’ll take it.”

I bounced onto my newly Oliver-approved bed and knelt there, rumpling the duvet, and gazing somewhat shamelessly as Oliver undid his shirt.

“Lucien,” he said. “What you’re doing right now looks suspiciously like ogling.”

I cupped my hands round my mouth. “Off. Off. Off.”

“I’m not a stripper.”

“You’re literally stripping right now. I’m just encouraging you.”

“What you’re doing is embarrassing me.”

He removed the shirt, folded it neatly, realised there was nowhere to put it, and stood there in confusion.

But.

Oh holy God.

You normally had to pay money to see something like that. I mean, we were talking grooves, ridges, just the right amount of hair—fuzzy, not furry—and even a couple of playful little veins snaking up from beneath the waistband of his trousers.

Fuck. I wanted to lick him.

Double fuck. I suddenly realised I could never ever take my clothes off in front of this man.

“What’s the matter now?” asked Oliver. “And where can I put my shirt?”

“I…I…I’ll find you a hanger.” And some kind of, I don’t know, beekeeping outfit for me. Something nicely covering.

I ran out of the room and changed into the biggest, baggiest T-shirt I could find, along with my loosest, least formfitting pair of lounge pants. I mean, don’t get me wrong. I was fine with how I looked. I’d had no complaints body-wise from anyone, and there’d been plenty of complaints about other things so it wasn’t a reticence issue. But Oliver was the sort of fantasy I usually didn’t even bother to have because I thought it was just too unrealistic. And I had no idea what a man who looked like that could possibly see in me.

Oh wait.

He didn’t have to see anything. That was the deal.

By the time I got back to the bedroom, Oliver was waiting for me in a pair of black boxer briefs that somehow managed to be sensible in a sexy way, his suit over one arm and his shirt in his other hand. In a moment of panic, I threw a hanger at him and jumped under the covers.

I definitely wasn’t watching Oliver as he arranged his garments to his satisfaction and hung them up in my otherwise completely empty wardrobe. Fuck it, who was I trying to fool. I was watching because he was gorgeous and I totally wanted to do him and I’d totally wanted to do him even before I knew the V-cut wasn’t a joke.

This was bad. This was very, very bad.

What felt like hours later, I was lying in the dark next to Oliver, not touching him, and trying not to think about touching him. Which meant, instead, I was thinking about everything else. Like how much he was doing for me, when he didn’t have to, and how badly I kept treating him in return. And how scary this could all get if I let it.

“Oliver,” I said.

“Yes, Lucien?”

“I really am sorry. For tonight.”

“It’s fine. Go to sleep.”

More time passed.

“Oliver,” I said.

“Yes, Lucien?” Slightly less patiently.