Page 53 of Noctis

“Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m saying. Be glad you can afford it. There are plenty of people who go through this that can’t.”

It was obvious what Tyler’s game was. He’d seen a way to maintain his rent-free existence for a few more months, and he wasn’t afraid to be the world’s biggest arsehole in order to do it. He knew he didn’t have a leg to stand on with keeping the property, but if he dug in, then, if Darren was correct, he could get a good five or six months out of it. And then there was all the stuff in my house. Would he go as far as selling it? If you’d asked me that a few months ago, I would have said no. Now I wasn’t so sure.

By the time I hung up, I felt worse about the situation, not better. What I’d assumed would be relatively simple had turned into a complex mess that would cost me both time and money. I spent the next thirty minutes going through the text messages and voicemails on my phone, most of them unimportant. It should have taken less time, but I kept getting distracted by the minibar. It sat across the room, calling to me, teasing me with the treasures I’d find inside.

Was it any wonder I needed a drink? First, I’d been forced to spend a couple of hours with my father after his unexpected appearance. Then there’d been the news about my mother’s potential murderer being released without charge, followed by the discovery that I couldn’t even get into my home.

One drink couldn’t hurt, right? Just something to smooth the edges of a fragmented day and help me sleep. I was on my feet a minute later, sorting through the collection of small bottles. They were all good brands, as you’d expect from a luxury hotel.

Selection made, I unscrewed the top of the Patrón Silver tequila and brought it to my lips. One tip of the bottle and one swallow was all it would take. I’d just have one drink. Except when was the last time I’d been capable of that?

With the bottle still resting against my lips, I lifted my other wrist and checked my watch. Just over eight hours. That was how long it had been since I’d left rehab, and I was already drinking.

Not drinking, I corrected. About to drink. There was a difference. So far, not a drop of alcohol had passed my lips. All I had to do was put the bottle down and choose not to drink it—to start using those better coping mechanisms that Dr. Logan Collins loved to wax lyrical about.

I wrenched the bottle away and screwed the lid back on. Before I could change my mind, I rang reception and asked them to remove all the alcohol from my room. I paced as I waited for someone to arrive, only relaxing after they had come and gone and left nothing in the minibar except soft drinks and snacks. The hotel’s lack of surprise or questions led me to believe it wasn’t an unusual request.

With drinking myself into a stupor out of the question, I stripped to my boxer shorts and went to bed, figuring that a sleeping person couldn’t be tempted by anything.

I dreamed of a hard body plastered against my back. My phantom lover kissed my neck and ground against me, their hard cock pressing between my bare arse cheeks. Apparently my boxer shorts had disappeared somewhere along the way. When I pushed back against him and murmured words of encouragement, a hand wrapped around my cock and began to stroke me.

They had the perfect grip and rhythm, which made sense for a dream. What was the point of conjuring up an imaginary sexual experience only to make it disappointing? There were plenty of people I could do that with in real life.

They rode the seam of my arse while they stroked me, their thrusts enthusiastic enough to make me smile. I floated in a world of sensation for the longest time, growing ever closer to an elusive orgasm without quite tipping over the edge.

It was a fantastic dream. The best I’d ever had. Embarrassingly, given that I was well past the age when such things were supposed to happen, I suspected it would prove to be a wet dream. Thank God I was in a hotel where I wouldn’t have to deal with the sheets.

The lips returned to my neck, feeling so damn real. And the cock had found a snug home between my thighs, the thrusts of my phantom lover growing less coordinated as they neared their own climax. How funny that I hadn’t given them an identity. Obviously, I didn’t want it to be Tyler, but you would have thought I’d have conjured up someone. An actor, maybe, or a model.

I was in the middle of trying to decide between Hudson Williams and Connor Storrie—or whether, if I concentrated really hard, I could put myself between the two—when I felt a violent shudder, closely followed by something warm and wet between my thighs.

Wait. That was too damn real. My eyes snapped open, and I looked down. There was enough moonlight in the room for me to make out the hand wrapped around my cock. A dark hand made of shadows that could only belong to one person.

I squirmed, reality warring with how close I was to coming. I needed to tell him to stop. I needed to tell him I hadn’t known this was real, that I’d truly believed it was a dream. But before I could force out the words, it was already too late, my cock refusing to listen to common sense and taking what it needed. I panted as I came, the truth of the situation doing nothing to make the orgasm less enjoyable.

Featherlight touches stroked over my skin as I floated back to earth and attempted to come to terms with what had happened. Maybe it was an ultra-realistic dream. Maybe I was still dreaming. Maybe if I closed my eyes and went back to sleep, the morning would prove that there wasn’t cum between my thighs and across my abdomen, and that there had been no one in my hotel room. Although if it was Caligo, his absence wouldn’t prove much.

Or I could meet the situation head-on. “You can’t be here.”

Don’t answer. Or say something so obscure that no one in real life would say it, thereby proving once and for all that I’m dreaming.

“Why not?”

There was no mistaking that smoky, seductive voice. I scrambled upright, flicked on the lamp, and pulled the sheet over my crotch in one quick move. Caligo lounged—there really was no other word for the relaxed posture—on the other side of the bed. He was himself, but in his more humanoid form.

“Because… you’re tied to the rehab clinic.”

There was no noticeable change to his features. Yet, somehow I knew he was frowning. “Am I?”

“I assumed so. Why stay there if you weren’t?”

Caligo considered the question for a few moments. “The people were interesting, and I had nowhere better to be.” He left a deliberate pause. “Now I do.”

“This is a hotel. They’re not going to be impressed with you moving in. Hotels prefer to keep their returning customers, not scare them away.”

His slight head tilt said he found my words amusing. “I have no interest in the hotel. I’m only interested in you. From now on, wherever you are, that’s where I’ll be.”

I tried really hard to think of the words as a threat. However, the softly spoken manner in which he’d said the words didn’t make them sound threatening. It sounded like a reaffirmation of what Caligo had already verbalized: that I belonged to him.