Hard Choices (3 page)

My last thought before I drift back to sleep is that at least I can have a bath now. Nick won’t let me slip.

I waken again when the engine dies. This time we’re outside Nick’s bungalow, the Vanquish occupying its old position in his cobbled forecourt. Nick gets out first, coming around to open my door and help me to my feet. He drops my jacket across my shoulders then reaches in to grab my bag from the back seat before looping his arm around my waist. I’m surprised by the gesture, but come to the conclusion that it must be to make sure any last lingering effects of the pain relief don’t cause me to make an exhibition of myself on his front doorstep.

Once inside, Nick directs me into the comfortable lounge and tells me to sit down on the couch. I do, and he comes around to slip my shoes off, and lifts my feet up too. Then he stands, looking down at me, very much the intimidating Dom.

“Right, Earl Grey, isn’t it? And, you, you don’t move until I get back.”

Ah, bossy as ever.
But not quite the Dom after all. I nod, and settle happily into the cushions. I could get to like this being looked after lark.

A few minutes later I’m sipping hot Earl Grey, my feet on Nick’s lap as he idly massages my toes. Christ, he never did this before—it feels wonderful. Almost worth breaking my wrist for. He smiles at me and waits patiently until I finish my tea before taking the cup and setting it down on the floor. Then he shoves his iPhone into my hand instead.

“Right, so what were you doing standing on a chair? You
were
standing, I take it?” He’s assumed his stern Dom tone again.

He pauses and I nod. So far so good.

“Right. And how did you come to fall off it?”

He releases my foot to point at the phone, the gesture meaning me to get on with my explanation. It’s slow going, but eventually I manage to type in what happened, all about my ill-fated plan to wash my curtains, and my intention to get my flat cleaned.

He looks puzzled. “This domestic goddess stuff isn’t your usual style, if you don’t mind me saying so. And your flat still looks like you’ve had a visit from the drug squad. What brought all this on then?”

I was bored.
I type the words laboriously, then hand the phone back to him.

He’s not impressed. “Bored people read a good book or go shopping. In your case they make quilts or even swan off to Australia. Bored people don’t wash curtains, not as a rule. And
you
definitely don’t. Try again, Freya.”

I glare at him mutinously, but he’s unmoved. He simply continues to massage my feet, and he waits. Eventually I’m the one who cracks. I know when I’m beat.

I was missing you. I’ve been pretty miserable.

He smiles at me, his eyes warm. “I’ve missed you too, Freya. It’s good to see you again, though I’m sorry you’re injured. Still, I’m glad you phoned me.”

I couldn’t think of anyone else.

“Ah, I’m wounded. I was your last resort then. Still, I’ll take what I can get.”

And his smile reaches his eyes as he continues to roll my feet in his hands, the firm strokes sending shivers up my legs. It’s sensual but tender too, and I could sit here all day. The tension and fear of earlier in the day just melt away, I’m totally relaxed.

“So, you’re to be my guest again, at least for a little while. I suppose I’d better get some fruit bought in. Any requests?” His eyes take on a warm glint as he carries on with his gentle teasing.

I shrug then shake my head.

“Right. I’ll choose then. Tesco’s online do bananas and such like. But I will need a list of things you need from your flat. I can nip round later and collect enough stuff to keep you going as you’ve turned up here in just what you stand up in. You know I much prefer you without knickers, but I expect you’ll want some spares eventually. What if you get run over by a bus?”

I suspect I’m safe from the hazards of major road traffic accidents for the time being, but even so I hand over my keys then use Nick’s phone to make a list of essentials for him to pick up for me. Then I curl up on his settee and fall asleep again.

* * * *

When I awaken it’s dark outside and I’m alone in the lounge. The sound of a television is coming from somewhere, the low murmur of the voices rising and falling. It’s a football commentary. I slide my feet off the couch and place them on the floor, using my good arm to steady myself as I slowly, experimentally, get to my feet. No dizziness, no almost fainting. I think the combined effects of shock and painkillers may have worn off. I wander off in search of the football, because there, I suspect, I’ll find Nick.

He’s in the kitchen, casually lounging at the large oak table there. Some European football match is on the television, and as I watch from the doorway he seems to be dividing his attention between that and his laptop on the table in front of him. I can just make out the Tesco’s logo on the screen so I assume he’s buying bananas. He has his back to me, so my choices seem to be I either knock or whistle. I settle for knocking, and he turns to face me.

“Hey, looking better. The sleep did you good. I hope you’re not too hungry, though—earliest delivery slot I can get is tomorrow morning.”

I shrug. To be honest, all I really want right now is tea. I head for the kettle, but he soon puts a stop to that.

“No way are you getting hold of a kettle of boiling water. At least not until you’ve practised using your right hand a bit. Sit down. I’ll get it.”

I do as I’m told—what else? And spot Nick’s phone next to his laptop so I decide to make use of it. I’m getting quite good with my right hand now.

Thanks for being so kind. I didn’t expect you to, not after everything
.

He reads my note as he puts my cup in front of me and squeezes my shoulder reassuringly.

“It’s no hardship, Freya. You’re very easy on the eye. You brighten the place up, even with a broken wing. I just wish you weren’t always so chatty.”

I smile into my tea. It’s really very nice to be back.

We spend the rest of the evening curled up together on Nick’s sofa watching television, first the end of the football, then Nick lets me flick through the channels until I find a re-run of
Dirty Dancing
. The story’s a bit dated now, perhaps it always was, but Patrick Swayze is just timeless. Eventually, despite having been nodding off most of the afternoon and evening, I’m yawning again.

“Time for bed, I think. I’ve made up the bed in the spare room for you.”

I just stare at him in astonishment. I’d assumed, naturally…

“You’re not my trainee anymore, Freya. You’re not my anything. I don’t have the right to lay a hand on you now, let alone fuck you. You don’t have to sleep with me.”

But I want to. Please.

I don’t protest, though, there’s no point. He’s being incredibly nice to me, looking after me, letting me stay here. Ordering healthy food for me. I really am grateful, but he made his position about our relationship clear two weeks ago, and foot massage or not it’s obvious nothing has fundamentally changed. I nod, manage a small smile, and head off to the spare room without doing anything unduly pathetic.

* * * *

I can’t sleep. I was tired earlier, when we were watching television. Now I’m wide awake, my mind racing, whirling with confused, haphazard thoughts. My head is a chaotic jumble of Queen Anne chairs, dirty curtains, plaster of Paris bandages, bananas and hot Earl Grey tea. My wrist is sore, but not so much that it’s that that’s keeping me awake. My biggest problem is the fact that Nick Hardisty is sleeping just in the next room, and I’m stuck in here on my own. I don’t feel quite as alone as I did back in my apartment, but it’s not enough. I need to be with him, properly with him.

I reach out and switch on the bedside light. It’s after two in the morning—I’ve been lying here for over two hours, just churning over the day’s events in my head. And I keep coming back to the same place, the same core fact. No matter what he might have said to me, no matter how many times he tells me we don’t have a future together, when I needed him he came. No messing, no questions asked. He just came. That must mean something. And on that thought I slide out of bed and head for the door. The hallway is in darkness, but I remember there’s a light switch just outside my door. I fumble for it—the last thing I need is to trip up in the dark, break something else.

Nick drove back to my apartment while I was asleep on his sofa and brought me a couple of pairs of pyjamas, but I didn’t bother to put any on when I got ready for bed. I just stripped off my clothes and slid into bed naked. I don’t bother now as I make my way silently along the hallway to Nick’s bedroom door. I open it softly, and for long moments just stand in the doorway watching him sleep. I wonder if he’d notice if I were to creep in and snuggle up alongside him. I don’t even need to go under the duvet, and I could sneak back to the spare room before he wakes up.

“Are you looking for a nightdress?” Not asleep then. Nick’s low voice rumbles from the bed, and he props himself up on one elbow to watch me.

I shake my head and he continues to hold my gaze. It’s just like old times. Well, almost.

“Ah, right. The bathroom then?”

Again I shake my head.

He waits a moment, and I feel his eyes raking up and down my naked body, illuminated by the light from the hallway. Maybe I should have pulled a nightshirt on. Maybe I’m being just too obvious. Too needy. Particularly as he can’t fail to spot the waist chain still suspended around my hips. Eventually he breaks the silence, his voice soft now, “Are you looking for me, Freya?”

This time I nod. And wait by the door. Nick sits up and shuffles along to make room at his side. He folds back the duvet, and beckons me forward. “Come here, Freya.”

I move forward, and he pats the empty bed alongside him. “Hop in then.”

I don’t need to be asked twice, and I scramble into his bed. Immediately Nick’s arms are around me, my chilled body pulled up against his warm, hard one.

“Christ, girl, you’re freezing.” And he wraps himself around me, his chest against my back, his knees under mine. He pulls me close, one arm across my stomach the other across my breasts. I snuggle back against him, my bottom tucked into his groin. His cock is erect, I can feel it against my bum, and I’m gratified that my naked presence still has that effect on him, but he makes no move to take matters further. Instead, he just holds me close as his warmth seeps through to my bones. And at last I can sleep.

Chapter Three

When I wake up I’m alone, though the bed is still warm on Nick’s side so he can’t have left that long ago. I try some experimental movements with my arm to find out how painful it is now, and I’m pleasantly surprised. It aches, and feels incredibly heavy under the weight of the plaster, but it’s bearable. That sorted, I decide it’s time to go looking for Nick.

I wriggle myself onto the edge of the bed and plant my feet on the floor. I feel distinctly shaky, but quickly realise that it’s hunger. I pretty much lived off a liquid diet of tea yesterday, and in fairness I’ve not been eating that well for the last couple of weeks. Now, I’m ravenous.

And still naked. As all my clothes are still in the spare room I borrow a T-shirt of Nick’s from a neat pile in the bottom of his wardrobe. It’s black with a vivid and horribly Gothic bat design on the front, and a list of tour dates on the back, a souvenir of Meat Loaf’s
Back Into Hell
tour. I wonder if Nick was there, in Manchester maybe. I’ll ask him. Meanwhile, the T-shirt comes almost to my knees so I’m decently covered as I make my way carefully along the hallway in search of sustenance and my host.

I find both in the kitchen. Nick turns as I appear in the doorway, his good morning smile dazzling.

“Morning, gorgeous. I was just about to bring you some tea in bed. Do you want it there or are you staying up?”

I point to the table and take a seat, and in moments there’s a hot cup of my beloved, aromatic Earl Grey in front of me.

“Are you hungry? Tesco haven’t delivered yet so we’re low on supplies. I could probably find something, though.”

I don’t even need to nod. My stomach growls loudly at the mere mention of food, the sound echoing across the kitchen. Nick chuckles—his lovely, sexy laugh curling my toes—and opens the fridge door.

“Right. It’s eggs then. An omelette, perhaps? We’ve three slices of bread, not counting the crust, so you can have toast.” He glances back at me expectantly.

I spot his phone, conveniently to hand as ever it seems, and open the note app.

Boiled eggs and toast would be nice. Soldiers.

“Soldiers! I haven’t had boiled eggs and soldiers since I was nine.” He fixes me with a mock stern look. “You dare tell anyone and you won’t sit down for a week, broken wrist or not. Right, how many minutes do I boil an egg for?”

I grab the phone again.

Would you really spank me? Four minutes. I’d like that very much.

He looks at me under his eyebrows as he reads. “You want me to spank you for four minutes? Or is this egg timing information?”

Eggs. I’m starving. But I’d like the spanking too, please.

He reads my note, and turns to me, his expression serious. “Things are different now, Freya. Our previous arrangement is over and I’m not sure how things stand between us now. You’re not my trainee anymore, and you’re not my sub either. Right now, I’m not sure what you are. What I am sure of, though, is that I’ll be delighted to oblige you in the matter of the spanking. But before we get to that we need to talk, and soon. First, though, do I dump the eggs in boiling water or let it heat up around them?”

I smile to myself as I write my reply.

Boiling.

The eggs turn out pretty good, and we both love dunking our toast soldiers into the soft yolks. Tesco’s are due in about an hour, so we decide to wait for them and plan a blow-out for lunch. As I finish my second cup of tea I reach for the phone again.