Page 22

In sleep, he looked younger, more vulnerable. The worry lines that had creased his forehead yesterday were smoothed away, his long lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. I found myself studying his face, noticing details I'd missed before—the slight upturn of his nose, the small freckle near his right ear, the way his lips parted slightly as he breathed.
As I shifted again, the sleeve of his borrowed t-shirt rode up, and I sucked in a sharp breath. Dark bruises circled his upper arm—bruises that matched my fingers where I'd grabbed him yesterday, pulling him away from the car. I hadn't realized I'd gripped him so hard.
"Mmm," Matty murmured, his eyes fluttering open. He blinked slowly, confusion evident as he took in our position. "Novo?"
"Morning," I said quietly, watching as awareness dawned in his eyes.
He jerked upright, then immediately clutched his head with a groan. "Oh God," he moaned, squeezing his eyes shut. "Why does everything hurt?"
"That would be the shots you did with the old ladies," I said, sitting up beside him. "How bad is it?"
"My head is trying to escape my body," he whispered, still clutching his temples. "And someone wallpapered my tongue."
Despite myself, I chuckled. "Hangover 101. Let me get you some more water and painkillers."
Matty just groaned again, falling back against the pillows and pulling the covers over his head. "Just let me die in peace."
I slipped out of bed and grabbed a bottle of water and some ibuprofen from my bag. When I returned to the bed, Matty was still hidden under the blankets, only a tuft of brown hair visible.
"Come on," I said, tugging gently at the covers. "Medicine time."
"Nooo," came the muffled protest. "Everything hurts. The light hurts. Your voice hurts."
"My voice hurts?" I repeated, raising an eyebrow even though he couldn't see it.
"It's too deep," Matty complained from beneath the blanket. "It's vibrating my brain."
I bit back another laugh. "If you take these pills and drink this water, you'll feel better."
"But you made me drink water last night," Matty muttered, but slowly emerged from his cocoon, blinking painfully at the dim light filtering through the blinds. His hair stuck up in all directions, and his eyes were puffy and bloodshot. He accepted the pills and water with trembling hands.
"Small sips," I advised, watching as he swallowed the painkillers. He clearly wasn't joking when he said he didn't drink. I'd made him hydrate last night but he still looked miserable this morning. And this barely eating nonsense was going to stop.
He grimaced after each swallow, but dutifully drank half the bottle before handing it back. "I'm never drinking again," he declared solemnly.
"Everyone says that during their first hangover," I said, sitting on the edge of the bed. "You'll feel better after a shower and some food."
The mention of food made Matty turn slightly green. "No food. Ever again."
"Toast," I insisted. "And maybe some eggs if you're feeling adventurous."
Matty just groaned, pulling the covers back over his head. "Five more minutes," came his muffled voice, sounding younger than I'd heard before.
Something about his tone, the childish plea in it, tugged at something inside me. This was what Ricky had meant when he'dsaid Matty needed a Daddy, not just a Dom. The realization settled over me with unexpected clarity. I'd skirted on the edge of the scene for years once I'd been discharged. Jono and Daisy attended the local kink club regularly, and while I enjoyed the times I'd been, being a good Dom took years of dedication and between the club and overseeing the two local bars including one strip joint we owned, I never had the time.
"Five minutes," I agreed, my voice gentler than intended. "Then shower. I'll find you something clean to wear."
A mumbled "Thank you" emerged from the blanket nest, and I found myself smiling despite the seriousness of our situation. Hungover Matty was... almost cute.
When I returned with fresh clothes borrowed from Cruise—who was smaller than me and closer to Matty's size—I found Matty sitting on the edge of the bed, looking miserable. He'd pushed the covers back and was staring at his arm with a confused expression.
Guilt twisted in my gut. "That was me," I admitted. "When I pulled you away from the car. I didn't realize I'd grabbed you so hard."
Matty blinked up at me, his expression unreadable. "You saved my life," he said simply.
"Doesn't mean I needed to hurt you in the process," I countered, setting the clothes beside him. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be," Matty said, his voice suddenly stronger. "I'd rather have bruises than be dead."