Chapter Sixty Four

Chapter Sixty Four
Saint groaned loudly, the sound vibrating in the back of his throat as his eyes flickered against the harsh morning light invading the room. His head felt like a construction site, heavy drums beating a relentless, agonizing rhythm behind his temples.

He frowned before he even opened his eyes completely. His body felt stiff, and the surface beneath him was unyielding and cold. It wasn't his usual feather-soft mattress with its high-thread-count Egyptian cotton.

He was lying flat on the rug, his cheek pressed against the hardwood floor.

"Fuck," he groaned again, wincing as the slight movement sent a fresh wave of nausea washing through his stomach.

This was precisely why he had strict drinking limits. This was why his therapist had spent six months drilling anger management coping mechanisms into his head. When he let his guard down,when he allowed anger, booze, and weed to take the wheel all at once,it made him completely crazy. It stripped away his sharp, calculating control and left him reckless.

The single silver lining in this thumping misery was that he recognized the faint scent of his own apartment’s wood polish. He was on the living room floor of his own penthouse, not waking up in some filthy, dangerous place in the lower districts.

He blinked against the glare, his hand coming up to massage the bridge of his nose. He took a deep, steadying breath, preparing to push himself up.

Then he heard it.

A low, heavy breath right beside him.

Saint froze. His heart gave a sudden, violent thump that had nothing to do with his hangover. Slowly, painfully, he turned his head across the floorboards.

Lying less than two feet away was the back of a broad, muscular man, his dark skin smooth and bare beneath the golden morning light, sleeping turned to the other side.

"Fuck," Saint whispered a second time, closing his eyes in sheer self-loathing.

He had brought a random home. In his high, drunk, grief-stricken state, he had picked up some stranger to numb the guilt of Tommy’s arrest. Great. Now he’d have to nurse a blinding headache while awkwardly kicking some guy out before the sun got too high.

Saint sat up slowly, his muscles protesting. He spotted his underwear tossed near the edge of the leather couch, reached out, and snapped them on.

"Hey," Saint rasped, his throat dry as bone.

He leaned over, reaching out to tap the man's broad shoulder to wake him up. But the moment his hand hovered near the skin, the man rolled onto his back, yawning deeply and rubbing his eyes with a heavy hand.

Saint’s entire universe ground to a sudden, catastrophic halt.

The morning light illuminated the sharp jawline, the silver-tinged temples, and the powerful frame of Harry Benson.

Saint’s vision went blurry for a fraction of a second. The floodgates opened, and the vivid, explosive memories of the night before hit his brain like a freight train,the cognac poured mouth-to-mouth, the heavy weight of Harry’s body on the couch, the frantic friction, the moans, the deep, unforgiving kisses that tasted of sweet liquor and forbidden ruin.

The headache behind his eyes tripled in intensity.

"SHIT!" Saint gasped, jumping back on his heels and pointing an accusing, trembling finger at the older man. "How could you let this happen?!"

Harry stopped rubbing his eyes, blinking up at Saint from the floor. His voice was deep, gravelly with sleep. "What?"

"Fuck!" Saint slapped both palms against his face, groaning into his hands as the sheer weight of the scandal sank into his bones.

Harry lay there for a beat, watching the younger man unravel. He let out a low sigh and raised one thick, muscular arm into the air toward Saint. "Help me up."

Saint glared down at him through his fingers, his eyes blazing with fury and embarrassment. But despite the glare, his hand moved on instinct. He grabbed Harry's wrist, bracing his legs, and hauled the heavy titan of the shipping industry up from the floor.

Harry swung his legs around, sitting on the edge of the sofa, stretching his massive shoulders with a wince that proved the hardwood floor hadn't been kind to his back either.

"You need to leave," Saint said immediately, his voice tight and clipped. He turned away, his hands flying to the back of his head as he pulled his messy hair into a tight knot to keep it out of his face. He began pacing the rug, his eyes scanning the floor as he picked up their scattered clothes,Harry’s expensive charcoal suit jacket, his own trousers, a discarded tie.

"Tommy will be out soon," Saint added, his voice laced with frantic urgency. "George is filing the emergency bail at eight. He’ll be released within hours, and the last thing this situation needs is you being seen walking out of my building."

Saint turned toward the hallway console to check the clock, but before he could take two steps, Harry reached out and caught his wrist. Harry’s grip was firm, warm, and impossible to shake off without a fight.

Harry looked up at him, his dark eyes steady, completely unbothered by his own bare chest. "So we're gonna ignore it?"

Saint snapped his arm back. "Let me go."

Harry didn't let go immediately, he held his ground for a second before loosening his fingers just enough for Saint to pull away. "Not fair, Saint. You're the one who started this."

Saint licked his dry, alcohol-stained lips, his breath coming quick as he clutched the bundle of clothes against his chest like armor. "You and me are enemies, Mr. Benson. What happened last night was... a momentary weakness. A mistake brought on by half a bottle of cognac and a terrible night."

A slow, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of Harry’s mouth,a look that made him look dangerously like his son, yet backed by forty years of absolute power.

"Or," Harry said softly, his voice dropping into that deep rumble that vibrated through the floorboards, "your true self remembering me."

Saint’s jaw set into a hard, defensive line. "Fuck you."

Harry let out a low, breathless chuckle, standing up from the sofa in all his imposing, unadorned height. "Oh, you did. All night."

Saint felt a hot flush creep up his neck, burning his ears. Unable to handle the sheer intensity of Harry’s gaze or the truth behind the words, he turned on his heel and retreated toward the bathroom, slamming the heavy door behind him to drown out the noise of his own racing heart.