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Adam was not about to leave him hanging.

He withdrew, pulled off the condom and dropped it to the floor. “On your feet.” He shifted back and up onto his haunches while Paul complied, the sound of his movements urgent. Adam reached out and encountered soft, firm thighs. He slid his hands higher until they met with a stony shaft. The boy needed, all right. Adam took the head of Paul’s dick and swallowed him to the root.

“Oh, fuck!” Paul shook, and Adam grabbed hold of his arse, pulling him in tighter while he sucked him off. He knew it wouldn’t be long, and within seconds, Paul shot his load down Adam’s throat, his body trembling violently. Adam held onto him, swallowing every drop and licking him clean. His come was thick and silky on Adam’s tongue, with a tang of salt to it. When he knew Paul had no more to give, Adam rose to his feet, the muscles in his thighs complaining a little.

“And now, if you’ll pass me my cane, I’ll go back to bed. Clean up before you come to bed.”

Paul placed the cane in his hands, but lingered there. “Whose bed?” he asked breathlessly.

Adam snorted. “Definitely not mine.” He caught the hitch in Paul’s breathing but ignored it. After all, this was just sex. He didn’t want to give Paul ideas. “Good night.” And with that he walked past Paul, swinging the cane in front of him so as not to trip on any unwanted objects, and headed through the hall and up the stairs.

For the first time in a long while, he almost felt like his old self again.

Almost.

Chapter Ten

Paul went through the mechanics of setting up the coffee machine, slicing bread, the daily routine of making breakfast, but his mind was elsewhere. He could still recall the feel of Adam inside him, but it didn’t bring him any joy. He’d crawled into bed feeling oddly deflated. Adam’s final words of the night before had robbed him of the pleasure he’d felt. When he’d awoken, the mood hadn’t left him.

Why did I have to open my big mouth?

Up until the moment he’d unwisely asked where he’d be sleeping, he’d loved every single second of it. His previous sexual encounters paled into insignificance. Adam certainly knew how to fuck a guy into the floor, and Paul had come harder than he’d ever done in his life. But the fucking was over and the following morning brought certain questions with it. Was Adam going to expect them having sex to become a regular occurrence, or was it strictly a one-off? And if he was, how would Paul feel about his boss fucking him?

That was if he dared to bring up the subject in the first place. He’d already been on the receiving end of Adam’s vitriol so it wasn’t like he didn’t know what to expect. And if that last derisive snort was an indicator, it could end really badly.

Paul glanced at the clock on the oven. Nine o’clock already. He raised his eyes toward the ceiling.
Come on, Adam. Time to wake up.
He considered taking his boss some coffee but scrapped that idea.
Yeah, so I’m a wuss
. He didn’t want to face Adam until it was absolutely necessary.

He had a bad feeling about this.

* * * * * *

Sunday morning brought with it the hangover from hell. Adam’s head felt as if it were in a vise and the pain behind his eyes was a bitch. Not that he was unaccustomed to
that
: compared to three months ago, however, this was a walk in the park. He never wanted to experience pain like that again.

Of course, it wasn’t only the hangover that made him feel like shit. He might have climbed into his bed feeling sated, but he’d awoken to a slow growing anger, most of which was directed at himself. His body was tense, his pulse speedy, his heartbeat pounding.

Adam knew the source of his frustration. A quick fuck on the library floor had scratched his itch, but in the light of day, other emotions had soon surfaced. Yeah, he’d enjoyed it, but that was part of the problem. He wanted more, and wanting only made him angrier. He had no desire to be dependent on anyone or anything, even the highs good sex brought with it. Prior to his diagnosis, Adam had a voracious sexual appetite. He loved to fuck, and fuck often. Granted, three months with no sex didn’t amount to torture in anyone’s book, but now that he was back in the saddle, as it were, his body had come out of hibernation, and it was ravenous. Adam wasn’t about to go looking for a hot hole, not when he’d discovered his new Personal Assistant was gay and possibly submissive. And if the previous night was anything to go by, Paul was definitely willing.

That was the problem.

Adam was pissed off that he was already craving the feel of firm flesh beneath him, the heat of Paul’s body wrapped around his dick. He’d awoken with a hard-on, and the first thought to cross his aching head had been to regret not having the young man in his bed after all: morning blow-jobs couldn’t be beaten. That had been the start of his bad mood: Adam Kent did
not
acknowledge cravings, and he didn’t even
begin
to contemplate giving in to them. He’d rather do without sex than do that.

As he descended the stairs, he could hear Paul moving about in the kitchen below. First thing on the agenda was to locate some painkillers, followed by giving Paul his instructions for the day. Today was his first day as Adam’s assistant, and Adam intended to start as he meant to go on: Paul was going to be very, very busy.

He paused at the threshold to the kitchen, listening to the sound of activity. The aroma of fresh coffee filled his nostrils, along with the delicious odor of toast. His belly growled in response.

“Oh. Good morning.” Paul’s voice was subdued. “Do you want your breakfast in here or in the library?”

Adam tapped his way to the kitchen table and pulled out a chair. “In here will do.” He sat, resting the cane against the table. The clink of the coffee pot and the sound of liquid pouring was followed by the dull clunk when Paul placed a mug on the table.

“Six inches in front of you.” Paul moved away and Adam let the soundtrack waft over him without really taking it in: the fridge opening and closing, the scrape of a knife over the toast, a plate clattering onto a worktop. He winced as the noise reverberated through his head.

First things first. “I need painkillers.”

A brief cessation of sound effects. “Are you okay?”

“Apparently not,” Adam said through his teeth, “otherwise I wouldn’t be asking for painkillers, would I?” He pinched his lips together and clenched his jaw, which only exacerbated the pain.

“Where’s the pain? I need to know if it’s muscular or not.”

“I need something for a bad headache.” He waited for Paul to come back with some remark about being hungover, but he was strangely silent. A cupboard opened and closed. The sound of running water.

“Open your hands.” Adam complied and a glass was placed in one, two small pills in the other. “Two paracetamol with codeine, extra strength. That should do it. They’ll work better with food.” A dull thud in front of him. “Here’s your toast.”

Adam swallowed the tablets with a mouthful of water, grimacing when they caught at the back of his throat. He drank down all of the water and felt for the mug. Coffee wasn’t a good idea on top of a headache, but he needed that jolt of caffeine. The smell of the buttered toast was too good to ignore, and he dug into it.

It was only when he’d eaten the last morsel that he realized Paul had been silent the whole time. Adam’s stomach quivered and his scalp prickled. This was not good.

Paul cleared his throat. “Can we talk about what happened last night?”

Fuck. No.

Adam took a couple of deep breaths. “Oh. I didn’t realize you wanted feedback.” Even to his own ears, he sounded like a prize bitch, but he didn’t want Paul making more out of it than just sex. “It was okay.”

There was a brief silence before Paul spoke, his voice whisper-quiet. “That’s not what I meant.”

Adam was damn sure it wasn’t. “Okay. I fucked you. End of story.” In the silence that followed, he couldn’t even hear Paul breathing.
For God’s sake
…. “What did you expect? Flowers? A marriage proposal?”

That got a response. He heard Paul gulp in air, but no words came forth.

“What?” Adam retorted. “Didn’t you enjoy it? Because you gave every indication of loving it. At least, I don’t recall you having to beat me off with a stick to stop me from taking you. Far from it. There was definite begging going on.”

Adam heard the rough sound of the chair scraping across the floor and Paul’s soft footfall across the wooden floor and out the door. He rested his elbows on the table and leaned forward to place cool hands on his aching head.

Did I have to be such a bastard?
He knew he’d taken out his anger and frustration on Paul, knew it as he was doing it, but had felt unable to stop. Sometimes he wished he had a filter for that mouth of his.

But this would accomplish nothing. There was work to be done, and he had no time for dramas.

“Paul? Come back here.”

A moment later, he heard Paul return. Adam needed to start this day on the right note, and with Paul’s present mood, that would be difficult. It was up to Adam to set the temperature.

“I didn’t thank you for speaking to Caroline yesterday about my belongings.” It wasn’t an apology, but he hoped Paul would get the message: he did not want to discuss the sex. “I’d like you to spend today bringing down as many boxes as you can find.”

“Where am I to put them?” Thankfully Paul didn’t sound angry or sullen: Adam was in no mood to put up with petulance. But that didn’t mean he missed the slight quake to Paul’s voice.

“The room next door to the cloakroom used to be the dining room. I’ve no idea what’s in there now—it’s probably locked, for one thing—but you can make space in there. It will mean going up and down the stairs for a while, but I can’t see the boxes being that heavy: if Dean could manage them, I’m sure you can.” He scowled at the thought.

“Dean?”

“My nephew, Caroline’s son.”

“I take it from your expression that you’re not that fond of him.”

Adam was grateful that Paul’s voice had grown stronger, that tremulous quiver no longer evident.
That’s it, Paul. Put it behind you.

“Dean is a thirty-year-old waste of space who hasn’t put in a decent day’s work in his life. He doesn’t like me, which is fine as far as I’m concerned, if it keeps him from my door. He was the one who helped Caroline pack up my things in London while I was in Torquay for a month, and I’m assuming it was he who brought them to the house. I wasn’t really paying attention at the time, to be honest. I had other things on my mind.”
Like trying not to go crazy because I’d lost everything that made my life mine.

“Am I likely to meet him?”

Adam snorted. “I doubt it. Dean’s one of those idiots who think homosexuality can be caught, like an infection, that it’s somehow carried on the air, to be breathed in.” At least the weekend had done one positive thing—he was free to talk about his sexuality. Not that he made a habit of hiding it, but he couldn’t deny it was liberating to know he could be himself. Not a thing he would have attempted with any of Paul’s predecessors.

“How do I get up to the attic?”

In that moment, Adam was proud of Paul for being practical rather than emotional. The young man had a good head on his shoulders.

“There’s a door opposite my bedroom,” he told Paul. “Through it is a narrow staircase that leads up to the attic. If we’re done with breakfast, we can go check it out.” He nearly said ‘take a look’: it wasn’t that such phrases pained him, but they were a reminder that he didn’t need.

“Give me five minutes to clear up the breakfast things, okay?”

“Sure. I’ll sit here and have another coffee.”

He sat back and listened to Paul bustling round the kitchen, pouring out coffee and washing dishes. Adam wasn’t foolish enough to believe that was the end of the matter. It was going to rear its head again at some point in the future, but hopefully by then things would have settled.

“Let’s go find your stuff, then.”

Paul’s remark pulled him back, and Adam rose to his feet, cane in hand. When they reached the attic door, it was indeed locked, but Paul had all the keys. Adam waited at the foot of the stairs: climbing them would accomplish nothing.

“Well?” he demanded after a minute or so.

Paul’s voice floated down to him. “Adam, do you know how many boxes are up here?”

“By the tone of your voice, I’m surmising rather a lot.”

Paul barked out a laugh. “And then some. This might take a while.”

“Then you’d better get started,” Adam remarked dryly. “No time like the present.”

He didn’t miss Paul’s quiet reply. “Yes, sir.”

Adam growled under his breath.

* * * * * *

Paul groaned and stretched, his back popping. His legs ached, mostly his quads, but that was due to negotiating the stairs umpteen times. He’d worked steadily all morning, stopping for lunch, and then right back at it until four o’clock. The former dining room was hidden from view, buried under a mountain of cardboard boxes. He hadn’t needed to read the label ‘Books’ to know what the heaviest ones contained. And Adam appeared to have a great many books. Heaven knew where Paul was going to put them all. Adam was going to need more bookcases, for a start.

Adam had kept out of his way while he’d trudged to and fro between the attic and the dining room. That was fine by Paul. The fewer opportunities for conversation, the better. God, Adam knew how to cut with that tongue of his. He’d thought Adam’s parting comment the previous night hurtful enough, but as nothing compared to his performance that morning. Paul had to get out of there. He’d felt dizzy, his ribs squeezing his heart, his face on fire.

Fuck, that had
hurt
.

Paul had only wanted to know where he stood, for God’s sake. Okay, so he’d had an inkling of the way the conversation might have gone, but
still…
. It had taken every ounce of willpower to get him to walk back into that kitchen, let alone act as if everything was normal again.

Pain flared in his chest.
Don’t think about it. Just… don’t.