Don't Read in the Closet volume one (32 page)

“Fine,” Charlie
spat. It wasn’t exactly the height of witty repartee admittedly, but
considering every drop of blood in his body seemed to have been diverted to his
cock, Charlie was still pretty impressed with how pissed off he’d managed to
sound.

Smiling like
he’d been given a sodding trophy, Sam once more took hold of the shower curtain
and pulled it gently away from Charlie’s body. “Do you remember what happened?”

“I don’t know.
But here’s a thought. Maybe I slipped in the shower or something?”

“Well, at least
we can rule out any conditions that bring a sudden alteration in mood.” Before
Charlie had a chance to respond, Sam was babbling at him again. “How have you
been feeling today, apart from pissed off with the world in general, I mean?”

His hand
caressed Charlie’s leg as he spoke. Charlie watched with great interest as Sam
probed around his ankle, casually forcing more pain into the joint than any
hardened sadist had ever managed to inflict, and with only his bare hands to
work with.

Sam had nice
hands—strong, confident, big enough to wrap easily around another man’s wrists
as he held him down and—

“Charlie, are
you with me? I asked how you were feeling.”

“I just fell in
the shower,” Charlie said. He cleared his throat and tried not to think about
the fact his cock had already completely regained its stiffness in response to
the nurse’s touch. “It’s no big deal.”

“Yes, but
you’re not normally clumsy, are you?” Sam murmured. “Did you feel dizzy at all?
Ever blacked out before?”

“I’m fine,” Charlie
said, through gritted teeth.

“Have you taken
anything in the last forty-eight hours? Any—?”

“I’m not high,”
Charlie cut in. “I just got…” he waved his hand in a vague gesture, while
trying to keep his wrist as still as possible in the process. “Distracted.”

It took him a
few seconds to realise what kind of motion his injured hand was actually
making. Apparently Sam was far quicker on the uptake.

“Oh.” The other
man smiled slightly. His hand slid further up Charlie’s leg. It stopped short
when he apparently noticed Charlie’s hard-on. Sam blinked. “Impressive,” he
admitted. “Not many men could keep it up after a fall like that.”

Charlie shook
his head, before dropping it back to rest on the edge of the tub behind him.
“You really don’t get the whole masochism thing, do you? I
like
pain.”

For once, Sam
didn’t immediately launch into another lecture on why leather was evil and
should be avoided at all costs. Both Charlie and his pounding headache were
very grateful.

“Were you
thinking about us?”

“What sort of
question is that?” Charlie demanded, squirming against the bottom of the bath.
It was only a great deal of self-control, and the soreness of his limbs that
stopped him trying to pull the shower curtain back over his exposed body.

He had made it
quite clear to Sam on numerous occasions that he didn’t do vanilla men and that
he had no interest in doing anything with him in particular. He’d been lying,
of course, but that didn’t mean there was any reason why his friend shouldn’t
have believed him.

“So,” Sam
asked, as his fingers pressed carefully against Charlie’s leg, possibly
checking for broken bones, possibly just groping him—Charlie wasn’t finding it
very easy to tell right then. “What were we doing when we fell?”

“I didn’t say I
was thinking about us!” Charlie snapped.

“You didn’t say
you weren’t,” Sam said, so bloody calmly, Charlie would have loved to have
possessed wrists capable of throttling him for it.

Charlie said
nothing in response. If his arms had hurt less, he’d have petulantly folded
them across his chest.

Sam, meanwhile,
actually had the nerve to smile as he worked his way up Charlie’s body,
checking his ribs and no doubt doing whatever it was that a nurse was supposed
to do when they found someone on the floor in the shower.

From there,
Charlie moved onto the painful process of assessing his hands and arms. There
was no caress in Sam’s touch and no humour in his eyes as he studied the
joints. He’d never looked more domly in his life.

In an effort
not to stare, Charlie looked down at his own body. If he’d ever had any doubt
over his masochistic credentials, the fact that his erection didn’t once waver
during the prodding of his wrists confirmed that he really was wired to find
the most painful processes as hot as hell.

Finally, Sam
gave back Charlie’s wrists and sat back on his heels. “Okay.”

Charlie
breathed a sigh of relief, but, before he had a chance to pull himself
together, Sam had levered himself up on to his feet and was reaching for him
again. “Let’s get you up.”

“I can—”

“By my count,
you’ve got a twisted ankle, a sprained wrist and two broken fingers. And I
haven’t even checked you for concussion yet. The only thing you’re in any
condition
for,
is doing exactly what you’re told.”

Charlie glared
mutinously up at the other man.

Sam glowered
back at him, pale blond brows drawing together. Any concern that had been in
Sam’s eyes a few minutes before seemed to be gone now. If anything,
that only made him look
more like Charlie’s fantasy dominant
than ever.

Charlie
frowned, but he didn’t have time to say anything before Sam leaned down and
carefully helped him up until he was able to guide him to sit on the edge of
the bath. Damn, but the guy was even stronger than he had been in Charlie’s
fantasy—easily capable of lifting Charlie as if he weighed next to nothing.
He’d probably be able to do the same if Charlie was getting screwed against a
wall too…

“Dizzy?”

Charlie shook
his head.

“Good. Just sit
there for a minute.”

The other man
grabbed one of the big bath towels and wrapped it around Charlie’s shoulders,
tucking it close against his skin in an apparent effort to stop any chill
getting deeper into his bones.

Sitting down on
the edge of the bathtub next to him, Sam suddenly placed his hands on each side
of Charlie’s face and turned him so they were face to face and staring into
each other’s eyes. His hands were warm and strong. There was no way to get away
from them, and Charlie wasn’t even sure he wanted to.

Still holding
his gaze, Sam slid his fingers back into his wet hair and gently caressed his
scalp. “Does that hurt?”

Charlie tried
to shake his head but the other man’s hold on him made it impossible.
Swallowing rapidly, Charlie had little choice but to resort to words. “No, it
feels fine.”

“That’s good.”
Sam smiled. “Despite your best attempts, it seems you’ll live after all.”

It took Charlie
several seconds to work out what the other guy could be talking about. He
stared vacantly up at his flat-mate for an embarrassingly long time before one
brain cell elbowed its neighbour in the ribs and he realised that Sam had only
been checking his head for bumps and bruises.

Charlie quickly
dropped his gaze, suddenly uncertain about everything in the whole world.

“Here’s what
we’re going to do. I’m going to dry you off and help you into the living room.
Then I’ll see what I can do for your injuries. Okay?”

“Do I have a
choice?” Charlie asked.

“Nope.” As he
picked up another towel and gently patted Charlie’s hair with it, Sam seemed
quite happy with that fact.

Much to his
horror, Charlie found he wasn’t entirely miserable about it himself. The idea
of just doing as the other man said still appealed just as much as it always
had. “I’m not completely helpless!”

“Actually,
right now, you are.” All of Sam’s attention seemed to be on his task, as if
Charlie were merely an object to be worked on rather than a real person.

Charlie
mentally rolled his eyes at himself as his cock got just a little harder the
moment that idea lodged itself in his head. Grinding his teeth together, he
tried to feel impatient while he waited out the other man’s fussing, but the
desire simply wasn’t there. A large part of him welcomed the attention.

A towel covered
hand wrapped around Charlie’s cock, stroking him as it dried him. A whimper
filled the air. Charlie did his damnedest to avoid realising that weak little
noise had come from him.

“Come
on,
let’s get you to the sofa.”

Swiftly tossing
the sodden towels into the hamper, Sam wrapped one arm around Charlie’s torso
and helped him to his feet—or to his left foot anyway. Balanced precariously,
unwilling to bring the sole of his other foot into contact with the bathroom
tiles and risk another red hot spike being inserted into his instep, Charlie
had little choice but to lean on his friend for support.

Hopping was
never going to be a dignified mode of locomotion. It was only made more
embarrassing by the way Charlie’s apparently now completely indelible hard-on
bobbed in front of him with each one-legged lurch.

By the time
they reached the living room, Charlie had never been more grateful to see a
sofa in his life. He let out a sigh as he collapsed down against the well-worn
leather and gently laid his head back on the arm rest. His eyes dropped closed.
The leather was cold against his bare skin, but he couldn’t bring himself to
give a damn. It was still a hell of a lot more comfortable than the bottom of
the bath.

“Stay there.”

Charlie opened
his eyes just in time to see Sam stride quickly out of the room. Half sitting
up, Charlie looked at the door leading into his bedroom, wondering if he should
be trying to escape and lock himself in there before he ended up embarrassing
himself any further.

“Don’t even
think about it,” Sam warned, as he appeared again, first aid box already in
hand.

Charlie flopped
back against the sofa with an even louder sigh. His eyes narrowed as he spotted
Sam’s smile. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

The other man’s
expression didn’t even falter. “It’s about time you had someone who looked
after you rather than just beat the hell out of you.”

“I don’t need
your approval,” Charlie snapped.

Sam raised an
eyebrow.

“We share a
flat. That doesn’t mean I give a damn what you think about me, or the doms I
screw, or anything else.”

“It doesn’t
mean I can’t give a damn about you though,” Sam murmured as he opened the first
aid kit and took out a long length of bandage. “It doesn’t mean I can’t hate
seeing you let guys use you, abuse you and—”

“Bloody hell,”
Charlie hit his head back against the arm of the sofa in frustration. “Don’t
you get it? I don’t let them do anything I don’t bloody well enjoy! I’m not
getting whipped for their amusement, you know. I do it because
I
get off
on it, not because
they
do!”

“Oh, so they
treat you like dirt because they’re nice guys who want to make you come? That’s
okay then,” Sam spat out, disbelief dripping from every word.

Charlie frowned
at the back of his friend’s head as Sam turned away and propped several
cushions beneath his injured ankle. Sam didn’t get it. He never had and he
never would. Worse, Sam didn’t even
want
to get it.

Closing his
eyes for a moment, Charlie held back a sigh. Apparently there was a limit to
his masochism after all, because he was still willing to be damned before he
admitted out loud just how hard he had fallen for his flat-mate.

He had no doubt
that would just be inviting more pain than even he could get off on…

****

Samuel Hall’s
hands worked away on automatic pilot as his brain raced faster and faster. A
twisted ankle was a twisted ankle. He’d known how to treat one by rote for
years. No thought process was actually required.

Just
a twisted ankle
.
Sam repeated that point to himself one more time, in the hope that it would
actually sink in this time. It didn’t. A ball of panic was still lodged in the
centre of his chest making it almost impossible for him to take a deep breath.

He
could have been killed.
That was the only fact there was room for in his head—it pushed everything else
aside and spread out until it occupied every corner of his psyche. There had
been Sam wasting his time worrying about Charlie every time the other man left
the house, when what he should have been lecturing him on was proper health and
safety in the shower!