Crossed Keys

Chapter Seven - Dash

Surging upright in bed, I looked down at the front of my shorts and groaned. My dreams were sexier—now that I could put a face to the lover in my dreams, I'd been finding it harder to wake myself up without come all over me.

Sighing, I pushed my feet out of bed and grabbed my towel and a fresh pair of boxers and darted out of my room. Without paying attention, I barged into the bathroom and crashed into someone.

"Fuck." I swore.

Please not Strike.

Please not Strike.

Please not Strike.

I looked up.

"Strike!"

My hands immediately went down to cover the very prominent tent and wet spot at the front of my pants.

"You okay?" He asked glancing down.

"My eyes are up here." I squirmed. "I—I'll come back.

"No." He caught my shoulder as I was about to turn away. "It's okay. I was just about to wash my hands anyway."

"No—I'll bathe outside."

Before he could catch himself, I left and scrambled down the stairs to the shower under the house. I wasn't comfortable until the cold water hit my back and my hard-on shrank.

Exhaling, I lifted my head under the water, gritted my teeth and allowed the water to soak through my hair. For the first time since I lived in this house and created the outdoor shower, I was dissatisfied with the soap. I wanted something that smelled better, that left my skin feeling smoother—

This was all because I craved being different for Strike.

I stayed under the downpour until I was shivering and forced myself to turn it off, dried my skin and changed into the fresh pair of boxers. I then wrapped the towel around my hips and made my way back inside.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Strike asked.

I nodded. "Give me a second to get dressed."

"Khap."

Film didn't join us for breakfast. It was as if I expected him to. I wasn't sure if he was still angry or he'd woken up from his fog and felt ashamed. Then again, nothing ever made him ashamed.

I'd caught him and one of his lovers together and while his lover, shoved him away and tried covering up, Film didn't even want to stop.

I'd barely seen him since I'd told him to get out. A few times one of his friends—or boyfriends—drove to the house so he could load things into their vehicle. I know I should feel bad about kicking him out, but I felt as if I couldn't trust him.

Either way, when I cooked, I still left food aside for him. A few times he'd eaten it—or thrown it away—I wasn't sure.

"That smells good." Strike spoke from behind me. "Grilled pork for breakfast. You're spoiling me."

"What do you usually have for breakfast?"

"Coffee."

"And?"

"That's it." Strike shrugged when I shifted on my feet to look at him. "The day gets so busy that I'm already running through things the second I push my feet out of bed."

"Who's running your place now?"

"My staff." He replied. "My friend, Bright looks in on them."

"And you trust him?"

"Khap."

He helped me to set the table and put the food on. As usual, he sat beside me, and we talked. Strike was funning—the only other man who'd made me laugh so much was Bank. But Strike made me laugh until I snorted, until I couldn't breathe.