Page 95 of Rookie Recovery

“Specialty of mine.” His green eyes sparkled with amusement, and the cocky grin crept over his face. “What do you think are the odds of doing that again in under forty-eight hours?”

I gave in to the laugh building in my chest. “Really good. Like, really, really good odds. Extremely good. Even better if you spend the night?”

The last came out as a question, and the laugh died on my lips. Sudden, strange butterflies danced through my stomach. Nerves. What if he had no desire to stay with me? I hadn’t had a guy sleep in my bed in years—

I shouldn’t have worried.

Nod. Emphatic nod. Very emphatic. “Yes. Absolutely. Please. And then we fuck again. Many times.”

I laughed. Again. “Yes, but first, weren’t you making me dinner?”

Chapter 12

Bowie

I could get used to waking up next to Dr. Sullivan. Watching the gentle rise and fall of his deep chest. The tiny kicks he gave in his sleep that seemed to mirror his dog’s. The fever dream whimpers of “That’s tripping” and “Where’s the goddamn ref?”. The way he let me be the little spoon every time, even though he always complained about it.

“But you’re bigger than me,” I would say, shimmying backwards into his big, hard body. And he would sigh and wrap his massive arms around me, and breathe his warm, sexy breath into my hair.

He wore actual pyjamas to bed, like a schoolboy, or a grandpa. I didn’t know why, but I found it adorable. He had a special pillow, so his thirty-seven-year-old neck wouldn’t have a crick in the morning. He had room diffusers that puffed out lavender infused farts every half an hour. And a favourite temperature setting on the thermostat that could not be moved a single degree higher or lower or else face his uncompromising wrath.

He ate fruit and yogurt for breakfast, and fruit for dessert like a weirdo. He had the fluffiest towels. And five-million or thereabouts thread count sheets that he would change almost nightly because, “Under no circumstances whatsoever are you going to sleep in the wet patch. And I’m sure as hell not gonna either.”

In short, he was a gentleman, and a grown-up. The difference between us, and our way of living was ... sobering. Sure, his flat was cold, sixty-five-degrees to be precise and not an increment more. It was kind of sterile, and dull, and I was mildly terrified of putting anything down in case I made a mess. But it was a proper place. For proper grown-ups.

There were no boxes of yet-to-be-unpacked-junk-even-after-three-months. There was no sea of trash and underpants covering the floor. There were actual dishes, and cutlery, and condiments. Not paper takeaway cartons, disposable bamboo chopsticks, and sachets of ketchup.

It reminded me that underneath it all, I was still the cocky imposter. The fraud. The kid who’d conned his way out of a country that couldn’t tell the difference between a puck and a novelty, oversized Oreo.

But with Jamie, it was different. I was different. I wasn’t pretending anymore. Didn’t feel like I was conning anyone, or going out of my way to impress someone to make them like me.

Jamie already liked me. Bowie, yes, but Archie too. The arrogant Brit with the quippy one-liners delivered in a novelty accent. The fuckboy with unwavering self assuredness, a tight body, and a fuck-me smile. And the lost kid who learned to skate on a flooded fucking field. Who bunked rugby practice every Saturday to hitch a lift to Swindon Ice Rink. Who still didn’t understand how much food to order in this godforsaken massive country.

With Jamie, I could be whichever version of Archie Bowman seemed to fit the situation best. Over the past two weeks, longer perhaps, it had been the silly, goofy, perpetually horny Archie Bowman. And if I was being honest with myself, that one was my favourite.

It was Sunday, so for once we weren’t woken up by the faux bird song alarm on Jamie’s phone.

A big, dark hand crawled out from under the duvet and came to rest on my bare stomach. “Good morning, beautiful,” Jamie said.

Two brown eyes blinked at me in the early sun, looking like little pools of chocolate pudding against the pure white of his sheets. His cheek was pillow crumpled, his hair fell over his forehead. This close, and in this light, I could see the smattering of grey hairs on his temple. The tiny scar just above his lip. His almost-dimple.

He was the beautiful one.

I didn’t get long to admire his face before Jamie launched himself on top of me. He pressed his lips against my neck and I laugh-screamed as his stubble tickled the delicate skin. My screams morphed to Ohs as he took his kisses down my chest, and Oh, yeahs as he took them farther still, slipping my already hard cock out of my boxers, and wasting no time taking me into his mouth.

Turned out, Dr James Sullivan was not only proficient in being a super PT, but incredibly skilled at delivering very excellent, and frustratingly efficient blow jobs.

“Edge me,” I whined, as the familiar sweet sting of my orgasm began building already.

Jamie popped me out of his mouth and held me upright so I didn’t slap myself in the stomach with my dick. “I’ll edge you twice. But I have something planned for today—Not exercise,” he added quickly because I’d groaned, and not in a good way. “Where’s the lube?”

I turned my head from left to right, but saw no lube. Neither of us were leaving our positions, though. That was guaranteed.

“Spit,” Jamie commanded, holding his palm up to me. So I did, and Jamie used his thumb to spread the wetness over his fingers. He took my cock back into his mouth and trailed my saliva over my hole. Sunk a finger in. Curled it. Massaged that spot, as he sucked me to the edge of orgasm twice, three times. Finally letting me come so hard, spots blossomed across my vision, and Brady came hurtling into the bedroom, claws clacking on the tiles, to investigate the obvious burglary happening.

Eventually, we crawled out of bed. Jamie took Brady for her morning walk and I made bacon butties for breakfast because I’d found a Portuguese foods store near Jamie’s block that sold back-bacon, and because it was Sunday.

And because it was Sunday, it meant no exercising. Though I still had to do my stretches. Dr Sullivan told me I didn’t have to wear my shoulder support during the day, that I only needed it on the ice or in the weights room. And I always listened to Dr Sullivan, and not just because he was so hot and gave amazing head.

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