14. Wyn

It's warm. So, so warm and lovely. Everything is gooey and nice. I'm in a big, fleshy cocoon that smells like man.

Wait. What?

My eyes fly open in horror, and I look straight into black.

"Whoopsie!" I cry, attempting to extricate myself from the chokehold I have on Derek MacAvoy. One arm is under his neck, hand curled tightly into his hair, and the other is burrowed between his pecs. I have to wait for him to lift his head to free myself fully. I hurriedly scoot back to my side of the bed. "Sorry! I-I don't know what happened. I don't usually sleep like th—"

Derek blinks slowly, blacker-than-black pupils expanding and contracting from the morning light. I distantly wonder if molesting your boss in his sleep is a fireable offense.

I think it must be.

"Sorry!" I say again, with even more gusto.

"You laugh in your sleep."

"Oh. I, um, yeah, Gould and Bridget have told me that. I don't know why though. I don't remember my dreams, so I don't know what's so funny. I—"

"Who's Gould?"

"He's my bestie. My other bestie. We used to live together before he got together with this older, um, I mean, until he got together with this lovely man named Stuart. Now they're married and disgustingly happy and, and…"

Fuck. What was I talking about?

I drag myself into a seated position and lean against the headboard to get my bearings. The sheet slips off my lap from the motion, and I'm left scrambling to pull it up.

One thing flimsy, feels-like-silk-against-my-skin fabric isn't at all good for is disguising wayward boners.

A sexy single brow arches up. "Daddy's Boy, huh?"

"No! No, no, no. I'm not…I mean, absolutely no judgment if that's what you're into. I mean, not you specifically, I mean people, you know? No judgment if that's what people are into. It's just not—I'm not a Daddy's boy, that's what I'm saying. My Gould, I mean my friend, Gould, is a Daddy's boy. He's the Daddiest boy who ever Daddied. Or boy-ed. He and Stuart have this whole Daddy discipline spanking dynamic going on." Holy shit. What am I saying? Why am I still talking? "Anyway, long story short, Gould owns this company called Daddy's Boy, and he makes these shorts. He gave them to me for my birthday last year when I turned twenty-nine."

"You need coffee," says Derek, diagnosing me with a glance.