Page 25 of Dirty Rotten Love

Option one. Sleepwalking. This is my first option, and I am not entirely sure how it works as an alibi given that I am visibly awake and wearing trainers, but it has the advantage of being difficult to disprove.

Option two. Looking for the toilet. Solid, classic. Except for the fact that everyone knows that I’ve been on this rig long enough to know where all the toilets are, including the one in my cabin.

Option three. I heard a noise. A good one. Responsible even. I am a safety conscious crew member investigating a potential issue. The fact that I cannot specify what the noise was or where it came from is a minor detail.

Okay, Option four, I am delivering something. But this requires me to be carrying something, which I am not.

Fine, option five. I couldn’t sleep, so I went for a walk. This is the most plausible one, and I have been saving it as a last resort because it is boring and I don’t like it.

Or perhaps option six. I am visiting my supervisor to discuss a professional matter that has just occurred to me. This is insane. I love it. I am keeping it in reserve.

I reach MacLeod’s corridor without encountering anyone, and feel the specific relief of a man who has prepared extensively for a situation that did not occur. The corridor is quiet and empty and the lighting makes everything harsh and still and MacLeod’s door is right there, at the end of it, same gray metal, same handle, same door that has now featured in my life in ways I could not have predicted.

I walk to it. Quietly. The squeak has mercifully stopped on this section of flooring.

I raise my hand and tap on the door. Lightly. Three small knocks, barely audible, the knock of someone who is very aware of the time and the proximity of other people’s cabins and does not want to wake the entire corridor.

The door opens immediately.

MacLeod is there. In boxers, completely awake, looking at me with those dark eyes, in the industrial light of the corridor, and I have the distinct impression, the very strong and specific impression, that he has been standing on the other side of this door waiting.

His hand closes around my arm. I am yanked inside. The door shuts behind me.

And I am all alone with MacLeod.

Again.

Silence falls around us. Thick, heavy, but surprisingly warm. It’s not a bad silence, it’s more of an anticipatory one. The universe drawing its breath before something profound happens.

“I did the shower thing!” I hear myself blurt.

Immediately, the corner of Macleod’s mouth twitches. An almost-smile, and while I’m proud of that, I’m determined to one day give him a proper smile.

“Good to know,” he says wryly.

The silence lingers. His eyes are very dark. His jaw is very manly. His naked chest is very...

“You’re still wearing clothes, Gallacher.”

Oh. Right. Yes.

Hastily I begin rectifying that problem, and in no time at all I’m naked.

“Bend over the bed,” MacLeod says.

My body obeys him without consulting me, and now I’m stark naked, bent over my boss’s bed with my arse pointing towards him.

A thousand schoolboy jokes about bending over for someone are racing through my mind, but strangely I’m not feeling ashamed, just a little awkward. But mostly a whole lot excited.

As evidenced by how very hard my cock is.

Behind me, MacLeod breathes deeply. He pauses. Breathes again.

“I like telling people what to do,” he says gruffly.

I snort. “Aye, I noticed.”

I sense him move behind me, straightening up perhaps. “We don’t have to do it that way.”