Page 1 of Night Latch

1

PRESTON

Mirrors don’t lie, and mine was saying that I looked like shit.

Dark circles under my eyes were a stark contrast to my pale skin. It was practically translucent in places, except for where it was becoming blotchy. Did sleep deprivation cause breakouts?

After another sleepless night in my lonely chalet, I was starting to get antsy. The large house felt claustrophobic despite sprawling across Aspen’s mountainside, and no matter how many staff roamed the hallways, it was basically just a collection of walls and windows that kept me isolated from the real world when I wasn’t at work and having to interact with people as if I actually liked them.

My phone buzzed on the counter, but I ignored it as I splashed cold water on my face. It was refreshing but didn't help make me look more human. Nothing helped anymore. Sleep was officially my nemesis.

I'd tried everything money could buy to be able to sleep on my own. Custom mattresses, sensory deprivation tanks, hypnosisplaylists, and even a damn shaman who claimed he could banish negative energy.

But all my attempts were useless.

Because what I really needed wasn’t readily available. I couldn't just order in a night nurse without risking everything I'd worked so hard for.

Just thinking about asking a stranger for help made my cheeks burn with shame. There I was, a rich, successful man who needed milk to sleep. It was beyond pathetic.

And yet, I was still tossing and turning—night after night—craving the only thing that could soothe me.

I headed to my library and grabbed a bottle of scotch. Not bothering with a glass, I guzzled several gulps before dropping down onto the sofa. As the liquor burned down my throat, my phone buzzed again. “Someone better be dead.” With a growl of frustration, I yanked my phone out of my pocket. "What?"

"Mr. Sinclair, I have the latest projections you asked for." Ryan was a new ops manager and eager to please, but calling me in the middle of the night was not how to do it.

“That’s what you’re calling about.” I pinched the bridge of my nose and held in the words I really wanted to say. "Just email them. I'll look in the morning."

"But sir, you said it was urgent?—"

"I said to email them, Ryan. Is that clear?" Being polite when I was in the office was one thing. After-hours were free game.

There was a long pause before he responded. "Yes, Mr. Sinclair. I apologize for disturbing you."

Without another word, I disconnected the call and tossed the phone onto the sofa. Guilt gnawed at me for being an asshole to Ryan, but I was so goddamn tired.

This was all Sal’s fault. He knew the deal when he agreed to move to Aspen with me. He had a ridiculously large allowance, free use of the house and ski lift that went straight up the mountain, and a life of luxury.

The only thing I wanted from him—needed from him—was access to his chest at night so I could suckle to sleep. Being on the latch had become the only way I could sleep anymore.

Unfortunately, letting me nurse was not all he wanted from me. In addition to the cash and the life of luxury afforded to him by living with me, Sal wanted date nights and romance. In other words, an actual relationship.

Love. Marriage.

All the things I didn’t have time or interest for.

And so he left, leaving me high and dry. Literally.

I figured I’d get tired enough after a few days and my body would naturally fall asleep. Unfortunately, after more than a week, that hadn’t happened yet, and it was getting harder to function.

I needed to make some decisions, and I couldn’t stall for much longer. My body wouldn’t allow it.

After hours of staring at the shadows that crossed the walls, the shrill sound of my alarm startled me as the sun came up. Another sleepless night behind me. Maybe my last, if thethrobbing in my head didn’t stop. My sheets were damp with sweat as I forced myself to sit up.

Fuck, I needed coffee and a miracle. Or better yet, a new night nurse who wouldn't be so sensitive about wanting a relationship. Someone who understood that it would be completely transactional. He would be well paid for his hours in my bed. And that’s it.

I shuffled to the bathroom, grimacing from the achy feeling that was now my norm. "Get it together, Preston."

An hour later, I was showered and dressed in an impeccable suit, ready to fake my way through another day. With my mask of humanity back in place, it was easier to feel like the powerful CEO others believed me to be.

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