Country Mouse by Amy Lane Read Free Book Online

the pillows once he managed to sleep.
    Shit. And how to face the stranger—Owen—when he returned to the living room? He really didn’t want to hear any smartass comments on his performance. Really not. He washed his hands—again—and dried them with the care of a surgeon before an operation. Ideally, when he came out, Owen would just have left and hopefully not have stolen his phone or wallet or something.
    He straightened, rubbed his eyes again and inhaled a few times. He could still play it cool. Turn it into something of a compliment. You’re simply too hot—your own damn fault. He snorted. No. He’d only use that if Owen gave him any shit about it.
    He opened the door again and saw one of the reading lamps near the couch was switched on. The blindfold lay near his glasses on the table. He headed back and didn’t look into Owen’s eyes. The guy was following his movements with his gaze. He was sitting up, still naked, not bothering to cover himself with any of his clothes strewn on the ground.
    “Are you okay?” he asked, and Malcolm grimaced. Ah, the ultimate insult.
    “Bloody great. I’m sorry about that last bit,” he said, still not looking. “Here, we can go into the bedroom. It’ll get cold in here in a bit.”
    “Can I wipe off your couch for you?” Owen asked, and for a moment Malcolm startled, thinking they were playing the kinky servantgame, but then he realized his little country mouse was just being nice.
    “I’ll get it,” he mumbled. He moved to the puddle of his clothes and found his silk boxers and put them on, then threw his dress shirt on because he felt just a little too bare. And he wasn’t kidding. Half his flat was windows—it would be damn cold very shortly.
    He walked to the kitchen and reached for a dish towel, squinting and wishing he’d put on his glasses, and was good and truly surprised when that lanky, athletic body showed up right behind his. A pair of long-fingered, narrow-palmed hands landed on his shoulders, and Owen whispered, “I can get this, Malcolm. We had sex. Here, gimme.”
    Malcolm was undone enough to let him, and he had to admit that since Owen hadn’t put on his boxers, the view of his naked backside, stretched and red as he bent over the couch and wiped it off, was a treat. He put his glasses back on, and in the new-found clarity, spotted the red marks on Owen’s hips and grimaced.
    “Fuck,” he muttered, and Owen followed his gaze and straightened, grinning faintly.
    “Not going to forget that in the morning, am I?”
    “I didn’t mean to do that,” he muttered, tortured by having to explain. Didn’t mean to do that? Malcolm didn’t mean to do something in bed?
    “I’m well aware,” Owen said, smiling that gentle smile again. He stood up and walked the dish towel to the sink, rinsing it out like he knew his way around. He draped the cloth over the spigot to dry, dried his hands and said, “Here, I owe you something.”
    “What? A graceless fuck in a stranger’s flat?”
    “Haven’t gotten one of those yet,” Owen said, taking Malcolm’s hand from its resting place on the counter. He picked it up, his hands cool and drying, and Malcolm still felt the heat and sting from smacking so hard. “I made a request, you followed through.” And with that, he pulled Malcolm’s hand to his mouth and placed a warm, wet, open-mouthed kiss on his palm.
    Malcolm shivered, the tenderness of the kiss soothing all sorts of sting. Owen’s lips kept moving, and his tongue came out to tease the center. Then he pulled Malcolm’s finger into his mouth and suckled on that. He released the finger, teased the webbing with his tongue, and moved to the middle finger, laving that one too.
    Malcolm gasped and tilted his head back, leaning against the counter and feeling strangely helpless to stop that gentle, playful caress of tongue and lips. Owen stopped, eventually, but not before all of the tension, the pain, of the last few embarrassing moments had