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  He’d been left feeling grumpy, snarling at the traffic as he’d driven to work. His mood had not improved after spending several hours on a report, only to have several mistakes pointed out via email, and shouting at Emma when she hadn’t found them. Everyone was now avoiding him. Merely going to the coffee machine had them all scattering like mice on a sinking ship.

  Needing a distraction, he stalked into town. The function in London the following week required a new dress shirt as he couldn’t find the one he had. He used it as an excuse to kill two birds with one stone. Escape the office and get what he needed.

  He prowled around the shop, muttering under his breath at the lack of choice. His anger continued to build as he watched the shop assistant trip over her own feet in her haste to escape him. Evidently she hadn’t liked his scowl one bit. Feeling even more disgruntled, he’d returned to the office without a shirt.

  His computer blinked, mocking him. This day was just never-ending. Before he could think about it, he yanked open the desk drawer, snatching the car keys. “Fuck it.” Martin slammed out the door, barely noticing the staff avoiding eye contact. Rubbing his brow, he could feel the tiredness making his headache worse, along with this constant worry telling him he needed to go home.

  Now, several hours later, he felt slightly fuzzy as if he was hungover, his gut churning. The queasiness unnerved him. He’d even searched his home looking for an intruder, even checking the garden. Frustration built that he didn’t understand what his gut was trying to tell him. To top it off, he was spending hours trying to avoid the front room window.

  He ate a snack, unable to motivate himself to eat more. Changing into sweats, he tried to relax, turning the telly on for a distraction.

  Huffed, hot breaths ghosted over the cold window, obscuring his view. Realisation hit hard. He had yet again moved to look out the bloody window. What the hell was the fascination? Fuck, he had never been surer he was turning into a stalker, obsessing about a bloody building of all things. Martin shook his head in disgust. Forcing his legs to move, he headed towards the back of the house.

  As he stepped into the kitchen, the hairs on his arms rose in alarm. His eyes hardened to steel as they skimmed the room for danger. He moved onto the balls of his feet, bracing himself. His hands shifted into combat mode, ready to fight. Adrenaline pumped as he took in everything in the blink of an eye, noting nothing. Something had to be there, but what?

  Trying to settle himself, he noticed his hands shook as he lowered them. Shaking out his arms, he moved to the patio door, needing some fresh air. He jerked back, and his hand slipped off the handle as he looked directly into a pair of glowing blue cat eyes. They looked eerie in the darkness. He estimated they were about halfway up the tree judging by his patio door. Was the intrusion a ruddy cat? Chuckling at his overactive imagination, he imagined his buddies in the army would be laughing their arses off if they knew he’d gotten spooked by a small kitty cat of all things.

  His gut continued to churn—what the hell?—if it wasn’t the cat, then what was it?

  Needing to do something, he grabbed his mobile and checked to see if Joe had responded to his recent text. Fumbling, he dropped it, and it skittered across the floor.

  “Bollocks.”

  Bending to recover the phone, he noticed his hands still weren’t quite steady. His eyes roamed the room. His fingers tingled, picking up the phone. His body just wasn’t behaving. Christ. Maybe he was having an episode of PTSD. They had warned him that it was a possibility after the shooting. Watching colleagues go through it, he knew it wasn’t pleasant. The army had told him to watch out for the symptoms, but for the hell of him he couldn’t remember. Shit.

  His pulse raced as if fighting to escape, making his head pound and his ears ring. Licking his lips, he could taste the sweat that coated his upper lip, the salty taste drying his mouth. Wanting a drink and getting one seemed near to impossible. Sitting down was more comfortable.

  As the thought entered his mind, his legs crumpled under him. The thud was loud, rattling his bones as his arse hit the ground. He caught his head on the cupboard behind him. His screeching rent the air. “Fucking hell!” Embarrassment heated his cheeks at the distinctly feminine sound he had made. His throbbing arse and head were overshadowed by his internal discomfort.

  He was unsure what he wanted to rub first. “Well, this is fucking fun.” His eyes nearly crossed as he touched his head. Hissing pain radiated down into his neck. Even his hair felt sore.

  Shuffling onto his hip, breath hitching as his bottom ached from the movement, he attempted to breathe past the pain. All right. He just needed a minute or two. He only wished this day would end. That he could turn the clock back and bury his head under the duvet to try to forget it ever happened.

  Taking another breath, he tested his legs. The muscles quivered, wobbling under his hands. Nope not quite steady yet. The pictures on the wall in front of him drew his attention. Martin immersed himself in the smiling faces that stared down at him, forgetting the pain. He breathed through his grief. His parents, his grandmother were all dead. God, he missed them. The grief had left a gaping hole in his heart. The pain was worse than the bullet that had ripped his insides.

  Life took what it wanted whether you were ready or not. It was a hard lesson learned. He was slumped against the counter, and his throat worked to swallow past the lump. He blinked back the moisture that made his vision blur. He wiped his face, and his watery smile forced its way forward. He reminded himself that his memories would always have a place not only in his heart but also in his home.

  He’d placed the picture in the heart of his home, the kitchen. Hearth and home in its purest form. Faces so alive they shone with happiness, smiles filled with joy, eyes sparkling at the camera. The Christmas meal’s joviality captured his family’s laughter. The magic and love so intense it radiated hope. Hope for more for that coming New Year. It had been his lucky talisman. He’d carried a smaller version everywhere.

  Tingling fluttered across his skin as if touched. He jerked back, feeling a little spooked. What the heck? The need to move pushed him to get up. Grateful he was feeling steadier, though God knew how, he pulled himself up, using the cupboard. Martin sighed in relief, though it appeared short lived if the clatter of his phone yet again dropping was an indication.

  Martin scowled at the floor. “Shit, at this rate I am going to need a new one.” Growling, he snatched up the phone from the ground, wincing. Righting himself, he rubbed his butt cheeks, remembering his earlier reason for getting his phone. As he checked the phone to make sure he hadn’t damaged it, his sigh was heartfelt.

  His concern grew when he realised how long it had been without a response from Joe. The question lingered. Why hadn’t Joe responded? It was so unlike him. Normally he replied, even if it was to say he was busy. A nagging feeling at the back of his brain was telling him something was off. Going with it, he dialled Joe’s number, trying to brush aside his concern. His spooked feelings for whatever reason were not helping. He listened as it went straight to voicemail. “Hey, man, when you get this message, give me a call. I am worried about your sorry arse.” To keep the concern from leaking into his voice, he’d gone for casual. He also fired off a quick text saying the same thing, hoping there was nothing wrong. Now all he could do was wait.

  They’d met years ago through the army. They had contracted Joe for special projects. Barely legal, he’d looked about twelve, fresh-faced, big chocolate eyes with an infectious grin. Joe’s clean, youthful appearance gave him the ability to blend, so they’d used him to gather Intel. But it was his ability with electronics that had been the primary draw. The deftness with anything electronic quickly made you forget his age. Brilliant, his creations used to assist undercover army personnel. Some so small they were undetectable to the equipment available to other armies. It had made Joe an invaluable resource.

  Their friendship developed as they had worked on several missions, Joe always gathering Intel for Marti
n to use to obtain specific packages. With both being gay, they realised pretty quick they weren’t interested in each other, deciding on friendship instead. They had somehow settled into a familiar routine with each knowing how the other worked.

  Joe’s only bad habit was his constant questions. It drove Martin to distraction. He had to know the answers, didn’t matter what it was. It was as irritating as fuck. They had fought about it consistently. On the upside, he could get whatever information Martin wanted, often rubbing his face in it.

  Distracted from his thoughts, Martin found himself scratching an extreme itch between his shoulders. His eyes went back to the window, searching for what was causing his unease. The eyes were still there, watching Martin.

  Moving with caution, he went to the table, feeling the need to turn his back on the intrusion and gingerly sitting. He looked at the clock. Shit, he’d achieved nothing, and now it was getting late, and he’d only had a snack all day. His stomach’s angry growl echoed around the room. Maybe the lack of food could account for the earlier weakness. Yeah, who was he kidding? He sneered at himself as he got up. It was a good try.

  His brows drew together as he considered what he wanted. Cooking had always soothed him. Finding his rhythm in what he was doing allowed for his thoughts at the time to settle. He could then let his mind wander. Searching the cupboards, Martin pulled out random items, unsure of what he wanted. Quick and easy food might help. Opening the fridge, Martin took out the chicken. He looked back at the vegetable rack. Yeah, stir-fry it is.

  Prepping the meal, he realised there was too much food, and Martin packaged the extra. It would do for tomorrow.

  The doorbell pealing made him pause. “Bugger!” he growled while sprinting to the door, he forgot his sore backside as his temper rose. He just knew it would be Ms Stevens. Her daily visits were driving him nuts. Why the hell she couldn’t just leave him alone was beyond him. Enough was enough. Anger contorted his face. Fisted hands yanked the door open. His flinty glare hitting its target showed no mercy.

  Martin felt his mind freeze, speechless, his mouth gaping. He paled as the internal click reverberated throughout his body. He clutched the door, feeling stunned, his nerves electrified. The hair all over his body rose with the undercurrents. Colour rushed back into his face, heating it until it burned. He could feel the moisture trickle down his spine pooling at the base.

  Blinking rapidly, he was unable to comprehend what was happening. The world merely tilted off its axis. A question not asked but answered screamed in his mind, the word repeating, incessant—mine.

  A feral snarl escaped as Martin stepped forward. His eyes burned with naked desire at the retreating man. Tropical sea-enchanting eyes framed with dark lashes that fluttered against his ghost-white face. Eyes with something akin to fear gazed back at him. The man’s rigid stance was seemingly at odds with hands that fidgeted with the hem of the dark hoodie he was repeatedly pulling down.

  Crap, crap, he’d scared this gorgeous man. Berating himself, Martin pulled back a fraction, giving the man space, though it was the last thing he wanted to do. Making a concerted effort, he softened his expression, offering a small smile.

  The silence lengthened, neither speaking. The man hopped from one foot to another, continually looking over Martin’s shoulder into his home. The only sound breaking the silence was from the rough cloth rubbing together as he moved.

  The urge to pull him into his arms made Martin’s hands ache. Instead he broke the silence.

  “Can I help you?”

  Martin was shocked by the gentleness of his tone, when his body’s urges were anything but. The effort of holding himself back had his muscles strain. They trembled against his will. The driving need to touch had him hold out his hand, aware he was silently offering more than a handshake.

  Martin waited, his eyes devouring what his body wanted. The intense throbbing agony in the confines of his pants made him feel disconcerted.

  Christ, he was breathtaking. He could drown in the depth of those striking eyes. A pale pink tongue flicked out, drawing his attention to the lushness of his lips. So wet they glistened, making him think of ripe peaches. The urge to taste, to bite, consumed him. He would bet anything they would be as sweet and succulent as any peach. The thought had saliva pooling in his mouth. Martin could feel his desire claw at him. He attempted to swallow past it, trying to process what the hell was happening. His hands clenched hard. Feeling foolish, he pulled back, shoving his hands forcibly into his pockets, knowing they would be safer there while he struggled to hold his control by a thread.

  Breathing deep, hoping it would help, he felt the fruity aroma of ripe cherries invading his senses. The tartness of the fragrance suited its owner, but it only made him want to taste. He was ravaged by his need, and the silence lengthened uncomfortably when his stark desire overwhelmed him. It felt bold and unapologetic, blazing inside him, staggering him as the beast pushed to escape.

  Whatever his face was betraying appeared to be making his visitor nervous, as some part of his body moved continually. Desperate to touch, he decided to push his hand out again. His own uncertainty made him impatient. Bending forward, he was acutely aware of how significantly bigger he was next to this man. Martin was convinced he could probably fit the man into his pocket he was so small. He took hold of the hand at the man’s side, the internal click from earlier intensified. The warmth of their skin meeting had Martin’s soul rejoicing, merging almost as if bound.

  Christ, he would be reciting poetry next.

  He gripped the soft, silky skin, feeling it slide against his roughened palm. With great care he clasped their hands together more firmly. Never taking his eyes off the man, he saw his eyes widen in shock. He was immensely pleased he had felt their connection. Martin saw surprise, then yearning form in the depths of those beautiful sea-green eyes, almost imploring Martin to understand. Martin couldn’t grasp what he needed to understand. His confusion must have been evident as the man’s facial expression shuttered, closing Martin out. Feeling as if he’d missed something vital, he watched the man’s eyes fill with regret when he pulled his hand free, stepping back.

  Martin reluctantly let go, realising too late the other man had spoken. Martin’s blank expression had the man brace himself, appearing to force the words out again.

  “Err. I live over the road in number three. Sorry to disturb you, but my cat has escaped, and she normally makes her way into your garden, into your little tree house. Could I have a look for her?” The melodic voice floated in the air as he rushed to get the words out.

  His voice relaxed Martin instantly. It allowed him to focus past his glaring need. He was grateful for the reprieve. It took a second for the words to sink in.

  Then he gave an internal fist-pump.

  Hell yeah, this was the owner of number three. It wasn’t the house that pulled at him, but its owner. It had to be? That internal click, there even before the touch, now seemed so apparent in explaining away his possessive thoughts. He’d bet every penny he had that this man had watched him on Sunday.

  Martin’s mind was a glorified mess. His body knew what it wanted, even if his mind hadn’t quite caught up with what was going on. He’d need to think about his feelings later when this man wasn’t clouding his senses.

  Absently, he watched as the man repeatedly wet his lips, almost like a nervous habit. He tensed before his eyes flickered over Martin’s shoulder again, appearing to brace himself, before he spoke again.

  “Mr Jamison had this house before you. He built a little cat tree house, letting my cat Princess visit his Maribelle whenever she wanted. Princess has been missing Maribelle, and sometimes she escapes over here to try and find her. Could I check, please?” Desperation made his voice wobble.

  Martin loved how his cheeks pinked under his gaze. He realised he needed to respond, but he desperately wanted to touch again. He ignored the question, thrusting his hand forward again before speaking.

  “Hi, I think we should
introduce ourselves. I’m Martin, and you are?” His low husky timbre had his visitor shivering. Pleased that he wasn’t unaffected, Martin waited. Going with his instincts, he kept still. It was time for this man to take the next step.

  Several emotions warred across the face in front of him. When the man eventually schooled his features, he jutted out his chin, making Martin’s lips curve in pleasure. He was about as assertive as Minnie Mouse.

  The man pushed his hand forward, their palms connecting again. The urge to have this man climb him like a jungle gym flared to life. The trembling Martin felt under his fingers seemed to spread throughout the man’s small body. His hips jerked forward as if seeking contact with Martin’s.

  Pressure built between them. The skin he held appeared to burn under his palm. Wouldn’t it have been amazing if the heat could melt those clothes right off his body?

  The man tugged, trying to pull back his hand, making Martin refocus. He felt the man’s pulse bound against his fingers. A small smile curved Martin’s lips. Oh no, he wasn’t escaping without answering.

  “Your name.” His commanding tone brooked no argument. The bewildered expression had his cock jerking. The man broke eye contact first. His gorgeous deep green eyes skittered away only to be drawn back as Martin tightened his grip, encouraging him to focus.

  “Brad, my name is Brad.”

  The melodic voice squeaked. His embarrassment deepened the lovely rose hue. His mortification was stamped across his flushed face. The pull was harder this time, dislodging Martin’s hand. Loss so instantaneous urged him to push back into the warmth and stop the tingling currently spreading up his arm.