He finally drifted off into deeper slumber, worn out and completely satisfied, his limbs tangled up with not-Misha’s and his head resting on not-Misha’s broad chest as if it belonged there. The last thing he felt was the gentle press of lips against the crown of his head while he listened to the absence of a heartbeat.

EIGHT

RILEY woke up by himself later that day, no eighteen-wheeler necessary. He didn’t experience any disorientation, either. He knew exactly where he was and how he’d gotten there. The curtains were closed and the A/C unit turned off, so the room was dim and hot. It smelled like sex, a blend of salty sweat and musky spunk that was pungent, but not unpleasant. Forcing himself to stay still for a while, Riley took stock of his surroundings and the less tangible aspects of his overall condition. Unsurprisingly, he was alone.

Unfortunately, the feeling that he wasn’t had intensified. He was well rested, which meant he’d gotten at least eight hours of uninterrupted sleep.

He was also stuck to the covers and sore in places where he most definitely shouldn’t have been sore.

Carefully keeping his mind blank, he got himself unstuck and turned around to lie on his back and stare at the ceiling. He assumed it was probably beige. Hard to tell in the gloom. His nipples felt tender when his fingers skimmed over them. He swallowed. There was a little crack in the plaster next to the light fixture. His dick was soft and sensitive to the touch, which was to be expected, but…. The curtain rod needed dusting. The curtains were clean, though, as far as he could tell. He lifted one leg and gently traced a finger over the aching, yielding entrance to his body.

Definitely not his own doing. Curtains, he thought quickly. Dark. Dark curtains. Man, he needed a shower.

The mattress barely squeaked when Riley got up abruptly. He went to the dresser and rummaged through his duffel for his toiletries bag and a change of clothes, then made his way to the bathroom. The neon lights activated with a buzz when he hit the switch, but Riley barely noticed the brightness in his effort not to look in the large mirror. He dropped his stuff onto the vanity, pissed, washed his hands, then grabbed his toothbrush and one of the small bars of generic soap and stepped into the bathtub. The water was cold when it first hit him and he was grateful for the distraction it

provided. The “not thinking” thing had never really worked for him, and he was having trouble staying in the zone. It helped to concentrate on the essentials.